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HABIT 

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OTHER SHORT STORIES 

































HABIT 

AND 

OTHER SHORT STORIES 


BY 

DARRYL FRANCIS ZANUCK 

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AUTHOR OF 

“The Man Who Lived Twice ” 
“Recoil” Etc. 


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Copyright, 1923 
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CONTENTS 


Book I Page 

Habit . . . . . . . . .11 

Ling Foo Gow plays his one performance in the dismal 
fog of San Francisco’s little yellow colony on the hill— 
that Oriental haven where East is almost West. 


Book II 

The Scarlet Ladder ...... 37 

A riotous night on Shanghai’s exotic waterfront—the 
deck of the freighter “Blue Gull,” and Kemal’s victo¬ 
rious burning of Smyrna. 


Book III 

Say It With Dreams . . . . . .133 

His honor, the Mayor of Bengate, shifts the ashes of 
old Barbary Coast and encounters, en route, the girl 
who nominated him. 


Book IV 

The Forgotten City . . . . . .211 

Border bandits and a Manhattan Sheriff roll the dice 
of destiny—the forgotten city of the desert, and the 
discovery of a miraculous fortune made from the juice 
of a strange plant. 



HABIT 



































































HABIT 


Chapter I 

Ling Foo Gow riveted his jet orbs on the burly figure 
that advanced on the narrow sidewalk of cracked asphalt, 
and with an excessive display of facial contortion, brought 
the aged lines of his poppy-hued countenance to an inten¬ 
sified scowl. His lean bony fingers with their three-inch 
ceremonial nails, clenched fiercely about the handle of the 
bamboo basket they held, and tiny beads of perspiration 
glistened beneath the coiled wad of oily black hair that 
was his queue. 

The huge clock on the brick tower of St. Mary’s Church 
marked the hour as ten, and already the lane that calls 
itself Grant Avenue was brimming and swaying boisterously 
with the night tide. From the base of the cobblestoned 
slope at Bush Street to the rectangular intersection at 
Columbus Avenue the sagging balconies that protruded over 
Chinatown’s White Way hung gayly with bright paper 
lanterns which played in the cool breeze that blew in from 
the cliffs of Golden Gate. The Oriental chop-suey establish¬ 
ments, and casinos of Manchu and Cantonese revelry, were 
crowded to the lily potted portals with throngs of hetero¬ 
geneous denizens. On the sharp corners and against the 
crumbling surface of bulletin-posted walls, gutter fires 
blackened coal oil tins and cast grotesque shadows to mingle 
with the purplish halo of gaunt lamp posts. 

Upstairs in the feast chamber of The Way Far Low 
Cafe, the crash of brass gongs and clatter of wood drums 
made a brilliant attempt to drown out in volume a quartette 
of reed flutes and a chorus of sing-song girls—but failed 



12 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


miserably, due more than less to the incessant yelps that 
heralded a frightened contingent of penned dogs and pigs 
in the odorous meat market of Len Sin, on the floor below. 

Behind sealed barriers, a dozen doors away on Waverly 
Place, a circle of yellow faces marked with sighs and smiles 
the everchanging tide of gambled gold. In the Bow Wong 
Joss Temple on the Jackson Street grade, the notorious 
guide “Bluffer” Williams, revealed the exotic forms of 
Chinese worship to a score of wide-eyed tourists—and 
when positive that his clients were attracted elsewhere, he 
cast a sly wink to the huddled figure of Lee Iy, the Oriental 
attendant. The latter presently offered for the sum of five 
American dollars the one remaining glass button from the 
uniform collar of Fu Gil, China’s famous revolutionarv 
hero. With glycerine tears swiftly applied to his squinting 
eyes, Lee Iy parted with his treasure to a gentleman from 
Iowa—and annexed five silver dollars to the wealth of 
Williams and Iy, Inc. 

At the gorgeous gold and ebony carved portals of the 
Sing Fat Bazar, a throng congregated on the curbing to 
watch the arrest of an intoxicated sailor who had done his 
utmost to feed peanuts to an ivory image of Buddha. In 
the hollow of Portsmouth Square, Se Wow, the soothsayer, 
conferred on the topic of a lower tariff with a group of 
merchants and apothecarians. Across the lane in the shad¬ 
ows, Steve Mulligan of the Chinatown Squad roused a 
doped derelict with a jab of his night stick. 

And thus it went, on and on, scene after scene, page 
after page, as Ling Foo Gow watched with seething hatred 
the bold, swaggering advance of his one and only enemy— 
Bull Lung, the incomparable brute half caste of Chinatown. 

Now Bull Lung in broad daylight and aided by dazzling 
sunshine was not a sweet or delicious feast for human eyes, 
and it is not difficult to imagine the after dark effect of 


Habit 


13 


scarlet rays from a gutter fire, the yellow aureole of a 
painted lantern, and the purplish tint of a sputtering gas 
jet, on his oily, repulsive features. In stature he was fully 
three times the size of Ling Foo Gow—a mammoth bulk 
of muscle, set off by pin-point eyes and a clean shaven head, 
bullet shaped. His father (so it was rumored) had been 
a prize fighter of Occidental origin; his mother (it was 
known) an ornamental female of Chinese ancestry. He 
was no more nor less than what could be expected. And 
this particular night found him at his worst. 

Reaching the painted wall of a jade and curio shop 
where Ling Foo Gow stood motionless clutching his bam¬ 
boo basket and eyeing his coming, Bull Lung hesitated 
his bold gait, and an ugly sneer twisted his puffed lips. 
His small eyes fastened their points on the huddled figure 
and twinkled. 

“If it ain’t my old friend, the dummy!” he snarled in a 
boisterous voice, stopping and facing the aged Oriental. 
‘'How’s the deaf an’ dumb infant, tonight?” he asked in 
the next breath. “Crazier than usual—or just the same?” 

Ling Foo Gow crouched back against the wall in the 
dim light. His beady eyes sparked like balls of fire be¬ 
tween their narrow knife-like lids. Froth seeped from the 
corners of his gaping mouth as he curved his lips to form 
words of defiance. But none came, for Ling Foo Gow 
was a notorious curiosity of the little colony on the hill. 
He was the one mute in all San Francisco’s Chinatown. 
And none took advantage of the vast handicap as did the 
bullying half caste. Although he was unable to hear his 
enemy’s derogatory remarks, he grasped from encounters 
in the past their significance, which had the effect of soar¬ 
ing his fear to greater heights than the actual utterance 
even suggested. He knew the reputation Bull Lung boast¬ 
ed, and, furthermore, he had suffered from the proof of it. 



14 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


“That’s right, yuh sap,” Bull Lung continued, raising 
his muscle-bulging arm to the level of the Oriental’s limp 
jaw as though to strike an elbow blow. “Froth at me, make 
your googly eyes at me—but not a move or I’ll bust yuh 
cold r 

Ling Foo Gow leaned back against the wall to steady 
his trembling frame. The basket quivered in the grasp of 
his bony hands and prompted an ugly laugh from his enemy. 
As the Oriental’s fear and wrath increased the half caste’s 
merriment blossomed accordingly. It was a vile scene that 
presently ensued. Vile, even for Chinatown, where almost 
anything happens. 

“How you do love me!” Bull Lung growled, the laughter 
leaving his voice. “I should kill you, I suppose—like they 
kill pigs—but you give me too much amusement for that. 
You’re too damn funny!” The half caste lunged a 
massive hand into the bamboo basket that trembled in Ling 
Foo Gow’s quivering grip, and jerked forth a dripping hand¬ 
ful of coffee-colored lychee nuts. 

“My usual collection for havin’ the rare opportunity to 
entertain me,” he snickered, stuffing away the nuts in the 
bulge of a jacket pocket. Then, not desiring to waste more 
time, he cleared his throat with a loud guttural utterance 
and spat full in the face of Ling Foo Gow. So delighted 
was he by the nauseating result, that his gurgling laughter 
failed to cease until he had climbed a dingy stairway to the 
recesses of an illicit gaming house that bore his name. 

It was all of half an hour afterwards before the peddler of 
lychee nuts was able to regain his usual immobile expres¬ 
sion and calm the passion for revenge that boiled turbulently 
within him. His conduct following the disgraceful insult 
had been as usual,—for it was the half caste’s nightly work 
to steal the handful of nuts and enrage Ling Foo Gow by 
similar scenes. A mute, aged and helpless, the Oriental 


Habit 


15 


was entirely void of means or manner to defend himself. 
Often he had appealed with pleading glances or beckoning 
gestures to fellow kinsmen for assistance, but Bull Lung 
was too mighty a power in the colony, and Ling Foo Gow 
went forever unaided. 

Fifteen minutes later he sold three ten cent bags of lychee 
nuts to a party of tourists who wandered down California 
Street, and life again resumed natural proportions for the 
peddler of nuts, Ling Foo Gow. 


Chapter II 


It was one o’clock now, and the swaying streams of hu¬ 
man traffic on the Grant Avenue lane had thinned to almost 
desertion. From the Bay the cool breeze swept a thin veil 
of pearl painted fog, and already Telegraph Hill dozed in 
a mantle of oblivion. The scarlet glow of fading coals 
marked the base of gutter fires that had flared brightly an 
hour previous. On the steep cross-streets the usual traffic 
of clattering cable cars and top-heavy taxicabs had vanished. 
Thick shutters barred the merchant windows and darkness 
hid the gaudy bazars. Chinatown had left its gay exotic 
camouflage for the forbidden realms below the surface. 
For the true yellowman, night-life had just begun. 

Ling Foo Gow emerged from a doorway that protruded 
over the cobblestones of Ross Alley, and proceeded toward 
the junction of Pacific Street. He had parted with his 
last bag of nuts to Wing Yat, the apothecarian. Payment 
had been given in the form of in-gu-pai, and already the 
effect of the Chinese whiskey pricked his aged veins with 
a vivid spark of alertness. In a swift glide, he shuffled his 
paper-soled sandals up the slope till he was opposite the 
shop of Tears of the Sea. Then he crossed over to Jack- 
son Street and continued until the whitewashed stump of a 
fire hydrant loomed up suddenly from the curtain of fog 
and he knew he neared his destination. It was chilly, for 
the gray mist had descended rapidly, and he paused to 
tighten the bosom lace of his tunic and lift the frayed collar 
of his hugely misfitting jacket. 

For ten years Ling Foo Gow had made his residence in 
the third cellar down of Hong Chung’s House of Silver 
Eyes. The proprietor did a thriving business in the im- 


Habit 


17 


portation of raw opium and Ling Foo Gow, if he thought 
about them at all, thought his quarters quite luxurious. 
Always the acrid tang of cooking pills hung bitter in the 
heavy air, and to be able to inhale this familiar aroma 
held especial charms for the peddler of nuts. When finances 
refused him, and the sale of lychee was poor, he would 
sit for hours on the dirt floor of his cellar chamber and 
breathe the pungent atmosphere. When his profits were 
plentiful, he did not bother, but went each night to the 
Palace of Dreams, maintained by the crafty Yen Chow. 
Here was his Seventh Heaven. 

Tonight, his mental functioning departed from its usual 
simplicity, and he experienced the urge to pass by the 
professional establishment of his enemy. Therefore instead 
of turning into Fish Alley, he continued down Jackson 
Street a hundred paces and halted beneath a wooden awning 
that shadowed the narrow sidewalk. His eyes lifted to the 
bright lights that shone in a flower-carved window on the 
second flight of a brick building across the street. This 
was the lottery house of Bull Lung, and Ling Foo Gow 
realized with a scowl that bright lights signified the half 
caste’s prosperity. Then he fumbled the prickly surface 
of a lychee nut and curved his lips to a vague smile. The 
nut crumbled beneath the pressure of his thumb and fore¬ 
finger. He tossed it to the gutter and brushed each hand 
with the palm of the other. Then he smiled again and 
continued his progress which presently led him into the 
darkness of a narrow brick-lined passageway. This was 
a direct exit to Fish Alley and meant the saving of as many 
as seventy paces. 

But tonight it was more than that. It was the great¬ 
est step in his life of sixty more or less honorable years. 
And also, the next five minutes were the most important 
in his entire existence. With his shuffling entrance into 


18 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


that tunnel-like passageway, life for Ling Foo Gow had 
only begun. 

With a single glance he recognized her,—although he 
knew by the overhead position of the one glowing lantern 
that cut the darkness, his own figure was secreted by thick 
shadows. She was as dainty, as youthful, as pretty as 
ever—Mell Wing, daughter of the wealthy antique dealer 
—and for a moment he held a rigid poise as her patter 
on the cobblestones drew nearer. It was the most for¬ 
tunate thing Ling Foo Gow ever did. 

The sight of her in pale clinging silks and gold spattered 
jade ornaments, brought delicious memories to the vision 
screen within the mind of the peddler of nuts. Since the 
abrupt departure of his august friend to the Seventh 
Heaven, Te Gut, the poet, who had ventured astray in the 
late Tong Festival and encountered an angry hatchet-boy, 
the gorgeous Mell Wing had been the single ray of bliss 
on his rather stormy horizon. Never did she fail to cast 
him a cherry-tinted smile as they met on the lane, or a 
glance of mercy from her kind almond shaped eyes. And 
always her purchase of nuts was daily. Once when a 
group of vulgar newsboys had stoned him and mocked his 
muteness, it had been Mell Wing who boldly interfered in 
his behalf, and Ling Foo Gow knew that never would he 
forget that rare deed of kindness. His passionate respect 
for her, which almost rivaled his inbred desire for poppy 
juice, and his loathing enmity for Bull Lung, were the two 
predominating thoughts of the very few that functioned in 
his mind. With him they were an obsession. The lofty 
pinnacle and dire abyss of his very existence. 

And now as he paused in the dim shadows and clung 
silently to the face of a brick wall, Ling Foo Gow was 
abruptly jerked from sweet dreams and delightful memories 
by the sudden, almost magical, appearance of his enemy 


Habit 


19 


in the path of the advancing Mell Wing. The bulky half 
caste had swiftly slid from an unchartered doorway on the 
opposite side of the narrow passageway from where the 
peddler of nuts watched, and now he stood waiting defiantly, 
with legs spread wide apart, arms folded across his thick 
chest, and an egotistical grin curling his lips. 

It was obvious, even to the unobserved Ling Foo Gow, 
that the daughter of the antique dealer was deeply stirred 
by the abrupt appearance of the human barrier in her path. 
At first she continued at a normal patter as though nothing 
had occurred to upset her evidently perfectly balanced equa¬ 
nimity, but when Bull Lung failed to budge and his grin 
broadened to an ugly sneer, Mell Wing turned in fear and 
fled as rapidly as her tiny satin sandals would permit, 
which was hardly more than a dozen short paces, for the 
half caste easily caught her in the powerful grasp of his 
muscular arms and subdued a scream she managed to utter 
with a brutal grip on the velvet tenderness of her throat. 

And thus it came to pass within the brief period of a 
single minute, that Mell Wing changed from an honorable 
daughter of the Orient, breathing, youthful and gorgeous, 
to a limp, unconscious body in the hands of a snarling brute. 
And Ling Foo Gow missed not one detail of the encounter 
and transformation. It is true that creamy bubbles of froth 
sputtered from his gaping mouth and his frame trembled 
palsy-like with fear. But it is likewise true that he held 
his rigid motionless poise throughout the ordeal and waived 
absolutely the obvious duty of interference. For Ling 
Foo Gow was undeniably, first, last and always, a coward. 
To dash heroically to the rescue of the female was 
paramount among the favorable thoughts in his mind, but 
was as impossible as his inability to speak or hear. 

It was not personally the physical danger of engaging 
in combat with his enemy that forbade this intervention—it 


20 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


was the mental incapacity. Such frightful illusions as fac¬ 
ing his foe in fistic warfare, never seeped into the chambers 
of his mind. Destruction of his enemy by pouring molten 
lead into his eyes, or branding him vocally as a pig, were 
far more enticing. But for the moment Ling Foo Gow 
was content to hold his peace and keep his body intact. 

With an alert glance that swept from one funnel of the 
dim passageway to the other, the half caste slung the un¬ 
conscious body over his broad shoulder and started at a 
rapid pace for the doorway from whence he had emerged. 
He had covered but half the short distance when the uni¬ 
formed figure of Big Dan Kelsey, patrolman, Chinatown 
Squad, silhouetted its six-foot frame in the oblong of yellow 
that marked Jackson Street. 

Evidently Mell Wing’s abruptly subdued scream had 
reached the patrolman’s ears, for he advanced on the run, 
revolver drawn. 

“Stop!” he commanded, halting Bull Lung’s disappear¬ 
ing act with a leveling of his weapon. “Stop in the name 
of the law—and make it damn quick!” 

Reluctantly the half caste obeyed the command and 
lowered the limp body to the cobblestones. Big Dan Kelsey 
advanced till they were hardly a yard apart. With a flash¬ 
light, hurriedly procured, he illuminated the scene with a 
stream of light so bright that Ling Foo Gow crouched 
deeper in his nest of shadows. 

“What’s the grand idea?” he demanded. “Trying to pull 
a kidnapping? Or is it murder?” 

“Kidnapping, hell!” Bull Lung loudly replied, recovering 
quickly from the shock of his disrupted success. “She’s my 
wedded wife an’ I caught her sneakin’ out with another 
gink—a yellow-belly Chink at that. Just bringin’ her home, 
that’s all.” 

“A cow could lie better than that, Bull Lung,” the patrol¬ 
man advised. “Don’t kid me. I know your record and that 


Habit 


21 


pan of yours too well and too long to be bluffed by a wife 
gag. You’re under arrest for—well, never mind, we’ll 
learn the charge soon enough, I guess.” 

“Can you drive a Stutz?’’ The half caste literally shot the 
question. 

“I can, but when I do, it'll not be a gift from you. And 
now that’s the second charge against you—attempting to 
bribe an officer.” 

“Have a heart, Kelsey. She’s my real wife, I tell you. 
We were married at St. Mary’s over a week ago. If you’ll 
be reasonable and let me haul her home now, I swear to 
God I’ll show up at Central Station in the mornin’ with 
my license and certificate. How’s that?” 

“It don’t go with me, Bull,” came the firm reply. “And 
besides,” (the bright glare of the flashlight shone on Mell 
Wing’s immobile features), “I recognize her. She’s Hop 
Wing’s kid—the Manchu antique dealer on the Sacramento 
Street crossing. You just be a nice little boy and load 
her in your arms, Bull; we’re starting peaceful and swift 
for Headquarters.” 

Now, Big Dan Kelsey had been a member of that famous 
organization, the San Francisco Chinatown Police Squad, 
long enough to know better than trust even slightly so 
notorious a gangster as Bull Lung. But for some unac¬ 
countable reason he permitted his gaze to rest briefly on 
the pale features of the youthful captive, when it most 
assuredly should have been riveted intensely on his prisoner 
—and the brief discrepancy in his customary conduct cost 
him dearly, for Big Dan Kelsey paid the price for his error 
with his life. 

As he bent over the girl, the half caste took advan¬ 
tage of the opportunity and shot from the hip — the 
automatic blazed from his jacket pocket, the skillful fingers 
jerked the trigger from the outside, and all five charges found 


22 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


their mark in the pit of the patrolman’s stomach. With 
a slobbering gasp, he lunged headlong to the cobblestones 
and there lay silent and motionless in a pool of crimson 
that poured from his jagged wound. 

Ling Foo Gow failed to stir from his tense poise in the 
bank of darkness until his foe, with the limp bundle of 
flesh in his arms, had swiftly disappeared behind the door¬ 
way barrier. Then he gathered his emotions together, cast 
a single glance at the huddle of blue that lay lifeless on the 
cobblestones, and beat a rapid retreat to Jackson Street, 
where without hesitation he proceeded to Fish Alley and 
gained that notorious twelve-foot thoroughfare just two 
minutes in advance of the spreading news of the murder. 
Chinamen invented an equal to the radio in the days of 
Confucius, 500 B. C., and they have never forgotten how 
to use it. 

Unable to reason or function his mental resources prop- 
perly, the peddler of lychee nuts dived down an inconspicu¬ 
ous slope of steep asphalt steps and hurriedly progressed 
forward in a damp odorous tunnel until a gate-like frame 
of iron bars prevented further passage. An oval panel in 
the side of a nearby cement wall slid cautiously open and 
revealed the peering countenance of a kinsman. Then 
there became audible the groan of a metal cross-bar being 
removed and the clicks of many keys in many locks. Pres¬ 
ently a thick door behind the iron frame opened, after which 
the barrier of bars itself swung on rusty hinges, and Ling 
Foo Gow shuffled with a sigh of relief into the forbidden 
realms of Yen Chow’s Palace of Dreams—the Seventh 
Heaven of his delight. 

With a few convincing pantomimic gestures, and many 
more silver dollars, which spoke for themselves without the 
aid of illustrations, Ling Foo Gow established himself quite 
comfortably in a shaded compartment on the third tier of 


Habit 


23 


bunks, which rose one on top the other, six high, from the 
dirt floor to a ceiling of interwoven bamboo. After unfast¬ 
ening his tunic lace and removing his jacket, he placed the 
wooden suey-pow in position for his head, and lay sideways, 
resting on a doubled elbow. The atmosphere about him hung 
heavy with pungent odors and the few lights were subdued 
by thick shades of painted paper, which had the soothing 
effect of calming Ling Foo Gow’s tumbling emotions, for 
he loved dearly, passionately, this Palace of Dreams (and 
nightmares, too) with the inherited lust that only the yellow- 
man knows for the so-called vice of his ancestors. 

From a lampless hallway a hollow cheeked attendant shuf¬ 
fled to his bunk and placed the necessary implements and in¬ 
gredients in their respective positions, to-wit: a small brass 
taper from which darted a scarlet tongue of cooking flame, 
a slender bamboo pipe with ivory bowl, a yen-hok the length 
of a hatpin, a recently cleansed ge-rag, a tong-like yen-she- 
gow for handling the valuable compound, and three black 
pills of fresh opium, each rolled to the size and shape of a 
garden pea. 

When the attendant had bowed and drawn together the 
burlap curtains that draped from the frame of the bunk, the 
peddler of nuts went about the intricate business of pre¬ 
paring his voyage to the land of illusion with the inbred 
skill that Occidentals have found difficult to mimic. 

To us, hop is the vile habit of a degenerate—to the gentle¬ 
man from China it is a glorious diversion of the honorable. 
We of the West may crave the pill when a habit has de¬ 
veloped—but we never may, like the true Oriental, love it. 
To him, daily life is his hell—opium his Heaven. Perhaps 
we err in taking it from him? But then again, he should 
not rebel. He came to our shores by his own volition—when 
in America do as Americans do. But let us return to Ling 
Foo Gow who evidently disagrees with our solution. 


24 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


Dexterous fingers applied to the ivory bowl of the slender 
pipe polished it until the ge-rag was soiled to a tobacco 
brown. Then Ling Foo Gow set it carefully aside and raised 
the moist pills to his nostrils, one by one, and with much 
sniffing satisfied himself as to the quality of his purchase 
After that he forked a single pill with his yen-hok and poised 
it over the cooking flame. Presently thick gray fumes rose 
and lay immobile in the foul air. Experience coupled with 
instinct told him the pill was sufficiently baked, so with a 
swift balancing movement of the yen-hok, he inserted it 
perfectly in the bowl of the pipe. With the sinking 
of his head in the wooden curve of the suey-pow, he drew 
three deep breaths on the reed mouthpiece of the pipe. Af¬ 
ter that the lids sagged over his jet eyes and life assumed 
magnificently exaggerated proportions for the humble ped¬ 
dler of lychee nuts. 

In the third bunk above, the glow of a taper brightened. 
A rasping voice burst into tuneless wail: 

A hop-fiend went on a dead heat stroll, 

Lookin’ for a pill he couldn’t roll- 

Well he zvalked and he talked the livelong day, 

Raving of riches he’d have to play. 

And he finally found a friend who money had, 

Pockets full, muck boucoo. 

So he borrowed a caser and away he flew, 

To dangle at the end of a Chink’s bamboo. 

Well he cooked and he puffed and he rolled away, 
Dreamed of billions he’d have some day. 

And then she came, nice and fair, 

Dark blue eyes and golden hair. 

She vamped him here and she vamped him there, 

And he rescued her, his lady fair. 

But the end she come as she always do, 

And everything went with a great big blue. 


Habit 


25 


The pipe went out, 

The pill was green, 

He was cookin' with a hatpin, 

'cause the yen-hok broke. 

The ge-rags were twisted. 

The pipe needed rodin, 

He was out of dope. 

So he stabs himself with 
a yen-she-gow. 

And dies with his head on 
a suey-pow. 

The voice broke off to a low whine. Gray fumes seeped 
from the burlap curtains. And presently Yen Chow’s Pal¬ 
ace of Dreams drifted away again in its doze of silence. 


Chapter III 


It was the hour of awakening that verges dawn, when Ling 
Foo Gow shook himself from the grip of a narcotized trance, 
gulped a tumbler of in-gu-pai, and emerged from the Fish 
Alley hop joint to the street. Telegraph Hill still drowsed 
beneath a drapery of darkness, but in the East the prelim¬ 
inary rays of daylight painted the horizon with slender 
streaks of silver that gradually broadened. The fog had 
thinned to a transparent veil of pearl gray, and although it 
had now ceased to rain, Ling Foo Gow noted by the tiny 
puddles that formed between the cobblestones that it 
had rained during his slumber. A chilly wind blew in 
from the Pacific and fluttered noisily the exotic banners and 
paper lanterns that hung from the doorways of bazaars. 
The Grant Avenue lane was practically deserted, the ped¬ 
dler of nuts discovered as he turned from Jackson Street 
and descended to the narrow thoroughfare. Although he 
kept an alert watch, it was not until he reached the base of 
the incline at Bush Street, that Ling Foo Gow found the 
object he desired more than anything else in the world. 
And then for a moment he hesitated, not knowing whether 
he wanted it or not. 

For almost five hours Captain Dennison of the Chinatown 
Squad and Detective Sergeant Weston of Central Station, 
had continued incessantly on a thorough and diligent search 
for probable clews that would reveal the identity of the slayer 
of Patrolman Kelsey. From every possible angle they had 
worked, and not a single thread of evidence had they un¬ 
covered, nor even arrived at an imaginary solution of the 
baffling problem the crime presented. As was the usual case, 
Chinatown had swallowed clews, motive and murder. 


Habit 


27 


“I tell you Captain," the Detective Sergeant was speaking, 
“it’s no use. They laid for him and they got him. It’s like 
hunting for something where there’s nothing. I suggest we 
call a halt, an’ start over again later on. I’m about all in— 
and, anyway, we’ve done all we can do as it is. What say?” 

“I guess you’re right, Weston,” the Captain replied after 
a weary yawn, “though I hate like the devil to see these 
Chinks get away with anything. Kelsey was one of my best 
men—an old timer—and I liked him. But then, you’re 
right about hitting it again in a few hours—it’s useless 
now. We might as well be going, eh?” 

Depressed by their failure and weary from exertion, the 
officers stepped from the shadows of the doorway where 
they had conversed, and retraced their steps through the 
fringe of the district toward Headquarters. And it was 
then that Ling Foo Gow caught the glitter of the silver police 
badge on Captain Dennison’s breast and so found the object 
he desired. 

To the day of their respective deaths, the two officers 
will not forget the remarkable incident that occurred in the 
gray light of that chilly dawn. 

From apparently nowhere the figure of an aged Oriental 
suddenly leaped and barred their passage. Without a sound 
the strange creature fixed their attention and serious 
interest by pointing his forefinger in the shape of a pistol 
and shoving it five times to the pit of Captain Dennison’s 
stomach. Patrolman Kelsey had been shot five times in 
the pit of his stomach—the recollection came to the officers 
instantly. But before their astonishment had calmed and 
they were able to speak, the Oriental moulded his hands to 
the shape of glasses and raised them to his sparkling eyes, 
signifying the fact that he had seen. Then, twisting his lips 
in a vain attempt to speak, he conveyed his muteness. The 
remainder came easy. 


28 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


With frenzied pantomimic gestures he repeated his ac¬ 
tions and pointed up the slope toward the scene of the crime 
until he was satisfied he was understood. Then he abruptly 
turned and retraced his steps toward Jackson Street. To 
say the least, the officers followed. 

As he neared the destination, the blood seemed to vanish 
from the veins of his yellow face, for it was void of any 
color, save a pale, chalkish tint. His small eyes bulged 
watery in their slanting sockets and showed red at the rims. 
Froth, a nauseating spume, came from his mouth, and with 
it the usual trembling. Ling Foo Gow faced his crisis. 

Many times many persons have told us about a China¬ 
man never displaying his genuine emotions. Many times 
many persons have been grossly misinformed. In this par¬ 
ticular action, Ling Foo Gow was not an exception—he had 
merely lowered the frail mask because he could hold it no 
longer. Fear had conquered breeding. 

And so, as has been mentioned, Ling Foo Gow dropped 
the expressionless mask of his race, and gave vent to his 
real emotions in the same manner as would the most honor¬ 
able of his august kinsmen. 

It was a matter of ten minutes’ brisk walk to the passage¬ 
way that marked the scene of the murder. The peddler of 
nuts led the way without so much as a single backward 
glance to verify his unproven belief that the officers fol¬ 
lowed. He knew it to be unnecessary and it surely was, for 
both Captain Dennison and Detective Sergeant Weston were 
capable of recognizing a so-called hot trail when they 
crossed one and the vivid portrayal they had recently wit¬ 
nessed, convinced them of the Oriental’s sincerity. That he 
was leading them to something definitely connected with the 
slaying of Big Dan Kelsey, they were positive, but just what, 
went as an unanswered question. But then the experienced 
know the futility of guessing about Chinatown. 


Habit 


29 


As the officers trailed the swift figure of Ling Foo Gow 
up unpaved slopes, through dark alleyways and finally 
reached the dim passageway, they exchanged the brief com¬ 
ments that were necessary in hushed voices and the eagerness 
to avenge the death of their brother officer shone plainly in 
the set lines of their features. Nothing will spur men to 
duty as the killing of a comrade—the Captain and his aide 
were obvious corroboration. 

Motioning toward the spot in the shadows where he had 
beheld the tragedy, Ling Foo Gow conveyed his desire to the 
officers that they stand where he had stood and watch as 
he had watched. It was a moment before they grasped his 
meaning but when they at last did, their compliance came 
without question. Ling Foo Gow was incapable of realizing 
that the right hands of both Captain and Sergeant clutched 
the grips of bull-nozed revolvers in their harmless appearing 
pockets. And anyway, he would not have minded had he 
known. The fact that one of the pair wore the blue uni¬ 
form of the Foreign Devils and the badge of authority, was 
enough for him. They were the powerful gentlemen who 
clubbed the drunken sailors and took them away in a red 
carriage and were most always successful in placing the 
scoundrels somewhere out of sight—and that satisfied his de¬ 
sires. Somehow he had vaguely supposed these mighty mon¬ 
arch s of the streets to be a sort of foreign god, created es¬ 
pecially to protect the innocent and drive away evil spirits. 
It had amazed him frightfully to discover they were suscep¬ 
tible to death; he imagined them immune from everything 
harmful. And actually, the crumbling of this false theory 
had been as important a factor in prompting his visit to Yen 
Chow’s Palace of Dreams, as had the victory of his foe over 
the female who brought him happiness. The two blows de¬ 
scending simultaneously had indeed shattered his emotions. 

Only one action remained for Ling Foo Gow now—that 


30 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


was to conclude this necessary duty as quickly and as con¬ 
vincingly as possible, and he went about this strange finale 
with the master strokes of a genius. It was his one and 
only performance, and forever will it live in the annals of 
San Francisco police history. The witnessing officers who 
stood dumfounded in the shadows, their eyes bulging, their 
thoughts racing, have told the story a thousand times, and 
never will it grow old. 

As Captain Dennison always declared: “It was the first 
three minutes of life in a dead man’s existence. For years 
that Chink hung around the colony doing nothing, good or 
bad. He ate and he slept and he suffered—just a useless bit 
of harmless flesh and blood. And then—as Weston and me 
stood there watchin’—spirit just oozed from that hulk of 
yellow, and life for that dumb Chink really began.” 

And in the words of this narrative, here is what occurred: 

Ling Foo Gow folded his arms across his sunken chest in 
the manner of an Oriental female, and shuffled with 
tiny steps down the passageway, as had Mell Wing less 
than six hours previously. Then he retreated swiftly to the 
doorway where Bull Lung had made his abrupt appearance, 
and mimicked the half caste’s actions to absolute perfection. 
By gestures he portrayed each move of the encounter and 
struggle between the two, and the brutal strangling of Mell 
Wing. Then, after he had slung the imaginary body over 
his shoulder and started for the doorway at a rapid pace, he 
darted from the characterization to the Jackson Street fun¬ 
nel of the passageway and enacted the sudden appearance 
of patrolman Kelsey. Then, leaping from one role to the 
other, he repeated each detail of the arrest and concluded his 
performance by displaying the cold blooded manner of the 
patrolman’s murder, and falling headlong to the cobble¬ 
stones as the officer had fallen. 

Standing there unable to move or speak, as they realized 
Ling Foo Gow had stood, both Captain and Sergeant were 


Habit 


31 


of the same mind. The details of the killing were as clear 
as if they had beheld the tragedy themselves. It seemed to 
them as though they sat before the footlights in some exotic 
theater, and applauded the grotesque acting of a great pan- 
tomimist. The Captain was the first to recover. 

“God!” he exclaimed, his fingers clutching the sleeve of 
his aide’s jacket, moist beads of sweat forming on his brow. 
“It’s plain, Weston, it’s plain as daylight! But how, how’s 
he gonna tell us who did it? He can’t talk—” 

Before the Sergeant had mustered his wits to reply, Ling 
Foo Gow leaped to his feet and answered the question with 
a beckoning gesture for them to follow. To the doorway 
where Bull Lung had disappeared with the unconscious fe¬ 
male in his arms, he led them. Then he pointed to the iron 
latch on the frame barrier and nodded his head. A smile 
(or was it a grin?) came to his poppy hued features and 
curled his lips. His jet eyes twinkled. The trembling of 
his body ceased. Gradually, as plain as the waters flooding 
a dry basin, the natural tint returned to his hollow cheeks. 
The Seventh Heaven of Delight was close at hand. 

Ling Foo Gow had conquered. 


Chapter IV 


Long previous to the arrival of a detail of reserves from 
Headquarters, and of the vicinity awakening to the annoying 
fact that it was surrounded by a circle of Foreign Devils 
with sawed-off shotguns, the peddler of lychee nuts had 
executed an inconspicuous disappearance from the quarter. 
No one had seen him go, nor could anyone recall his final 
appearance. He had simply vanished, and the matter 
rested there. 

Captain Dennison, followed by a squad of plain-clothes 
officers who were quite dexterous in affairs of the sort, led 
the raid into the private chambers of Bull Lung’s illicit 
gaming establishment. And really, it was all very simple 
and peaceful. The thick door with its many locks splintered 
under the shock of a raiding ax, and into a stuffy gas lit 
hallway the officers advanced. 

There, hardly a dozen paces from the passageway, they 
found him, or rather his cold slimy body, for the official 
report stated that Bull Lung had been dead almost six 
hours. And then, when his lifeless carcass had been 
dragged to light, a brief search revealed Mell Wing locked 
behind the walls of an adjoining cell—gagged securely and 
frightened immensely, but otherwise uninjured. 

Both of San Francisco's morning newspapers in their 
sensational reports of the tragedy, the rescue of the impris¬ 
oned girl, and the discovery of the dead body of the mur¬ 
derer, gave detailed space to the extraordinary fact that Bull 
Lung had died of heart failure while fleeing horror stricken 
from the scene of his crime. He had been brought to justice 
by the Almighty Judge, they said, and most everyone who 
read the events preceding his death, agreed and felt that 


Habit 


33 


the State had been graciously relieved of the expense of 
trial and conviction. 

In the articles Ling Foo Gow was mentioned very briefly, 
but had he been acquainted with newspapers he could have 
denied the statement that Bull Lung died of heart failure— 
for it was altogether false. And had the coroner ordered 
an investigation of the murderer’s visceral cavity, the proof 
would have been discovered, but he did not bother, and it 
has so occurred that even to this day Ling Foo Gow alone 
knows the secret. 

For had not he, himself, injected poison into a handful of 
lychee nuts and placed them close to the rim of his basket 
where, following his nightly habit, Bull Lung’s thieving hand 
had grasped them that evening of the murder when he spat 
full in the face of Ling Foo Gow? Certainly he had, and his 
inability to speak was the only barrier that prevented him 
from openly boasting. 

For Ling Foo Gow possessed one trait of a perfectly 
balanced mind—he was extremely proud of his illustrious 
achievement and throughout his entire life of many years 
the acute ecstasy which came with this triumph, remained 
the most exquisite sensation he had known. 




THE SCARLET LADDER 


























THE SCARLET LADDER 


Chapter I 

From over the curve of the earth came dawn, gray and 
mean, to the coral shores of Samolo. The arrogant blue 
of the Pacific tore over the reef in billows of white-caps and 
shot up the washed sand of the beach a cold, quivering 
sheet of silver. The tall, slender palms that rose from the 
jungle edge at Two-Pence Point swayed in the cool breeze 
like huge sentinels staggering from drink. The bamboo 
flaps that hung from the veranda of the commissary swung 
shut one by one as gusts of wind shivered the frail struc¬ 
ture. Dark skinned natives scampered in and out of the 
copra shanties, carrying perishable commodities and pausing 
occasionally to cast suspicious glances upward at the dull 
menacing sky. Samolo was on the verge of experiencing 
one of its notorious tropical storms—according to all indi¬ 
cations, human and elemental. 

Ralph Weston was awakened by the light, preliminary 
drops which foretold the torrent that was to ensue. Blink¬ 
ing his dark eyes, he brushed the sand from his face and 
rose to a sitting position. His mouth was dry and stenchy; 
about him the air was permeated with a foul odor of bad 
liquor; his eyes were bloodshot and blurred in their watery 
sockets; a five days’ growth of beard lent his usually clean- 
cut features an ugly expression; he glanced downward at 
the one time cream flannel of his fashionable tropic suit and 
grinned. The cloth was a hopeless mass of cheroot stains 
and whiskey blotches. His collar was missing, as was his 
tie. The lace had broken in one of his mud spattered shoes. 
For a moment he stared at what had once been a white-kid 



38 


Darryl Francts Zanuck 


surface. Then he scraped his hands about in the sand and 
located a square-necked bottle. Gordon gin—it was empty. 

Something stirred behind him. He turned quickly. It 
was the huge nigger. Oh, yes, he remembered now! Big 
Bimbo they had called him—a West Coast Black, bulging 
with muscles and strength. Let’s see, what had happened ? 
It was vague, the recollection, but gradually it came back, 
scene by scene. 

He had gone to the Casino sober, he thought—but wasn’t 
positive (nothing seemed to be positive with him these 
days). But that mattered little. He had gone there, that 
was enough. And the place was crowded, too—jammed to 
overflowing: dancing hulas, sailors, dock laborers, a few 
Orientals, Spaniards and Latins, the usual British contin¬ 
gent, and himself—a Yank (God!—what a disgrace to his 
country). 

He had sat alone in one of the bamboo booths. He had 
ordered—and an oily Kanaka had served him with gin and 
rum, gin and rum, with an occasional whiskey to break 
the monotony. The lights had grown dim; the reed music 
boisterous. The crowds, the heterogeneous throngs, that 
circled the roulette games, had blurred to his vision. He 
was drunk—again was it ?—or yet ? 

A girl, a youthful thing with olive skin, honey cheeks, 
and a delicious red mouth, had smiled and sat beside him. 
She had patted his hand, winked her jet eyes—and he had 
ordered. 

Suddenly a very embarrassing predicament arose. The 
Kanaka waiter shoved him a staggering bill. A diligent 
search through his pockets revealed a copper—and that was 
all. He turned to his new found acquaintance and grinned— 
but she had disappeared (with his wallet, he wondered— 
no, he was broke, flat broke). He signed the bill and 
handed it to the bewildered Kanaka. Obviously such a 


The: Scarlet Ladder 


39 


mode of credit was unknown. The waiter, jabbering 
volubly, made his way to the bar, and very abruptly the 
proprietor—Gus LeYene, they had called him—appeared. 
He exchanged whispered words with the Kanaka—and 
the waiter disappeared in the smoke clouded hall. Then 
he demanded cash. The Kanaka reappeared presently with 
the girl, and the proprietor accused her of deliberately drink¬ 
ing with a penniless customer. She offered to pay the bill. 
Gus LeVene grabbed a handful of silver from her and 
shoved her away. Then he pointed an angry finger in the 
direction of Ralph Weston—and received a smashing 
upper-cut on his flabby jaw. 

The remainder of the encounter was very vague. It 
seemed as though he had been thrown out in the shallow 
gutter. Big Bimbo, always broke and always begging 
drinks, had followed him, landing in the mud headlong. 
The West Coast negro had clung fiercely to a bottle of gin. 
They must have drunk it, every drop. And now here they 
were, side by side, on the beach. 

Ralph rose to his unsteady feet and dropped the square¬ 
necked bottle. It landed on the Black. He opened his eyes 
and almost instantly fixed them on the gray sky. 

“Mornin',” he growled. “Better be makin’ for shelter. 
Storm—rain. Big much come quick.” 

“Thanks,” Ralph replied, yawning. “Guess I'll hit for the 
Casino and have breakfast. Come along?” 

“Breakfast, hell!” came the answer. “You’re broke—an' 
so am I. You’re cause for me bein’ kicked out by Gus last 
night. You no pay bill—out you go. Gus mad as devil— 
’e take it out on me. I got no cash—not a sou. Out 1 go 
with bottle of gin. Where gin go, you thief?” 

The huge Mack shifted his small pin-point eyes until they 
rested on the empty bottle. Ralph did not reply. He had 
thought the gentleman from the West Coast his friend—he 


40 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


had imagined they were both in the same boat. Evidently 
he was mistaken. 

“Last night I was too drunk to fight,” growled Big Bimbo, 
kicking the bottle surfward and scowling at Ralph. “You 
steal me gin when I sleep. You no good White—low below 
good Black like me. Maybe I beat you like copra dust, like 
man beat native thief. You worse rat pirate.” 

Ralph had been too dazed to recall whether or not he had 
consumed the liquor in question. Big Bimbo’s anger was 
growing as the mantle of slumber cleared from his mind, 
that Ralph realized, and also that he was no match in a 
fistic encounter with the muscle-bulging African. He 
squirmed and forced a smile. 

“Aw, we’re good pals, Bimbo,” he managed to say. “I 
must have emptied the bottle, but I’ll pay you. I’m good— 
you’ll get your money.” 

“Me get nothin’. You broke. No can pay bill to Gus. 
Not a sou. You like all men come to Samolo. Much silver 
an’ five-pound notes. Much drink gin, rum. Quick go 
silver. Quick go five-pound notes. Purty soon broke—like 
you. No good White—beg coppers, starve, steal. Purty 
soon jump from Two-Pence Point an’ die. Maybe go deep 
in jungle an’ no come back. I know you kind—plenty like 
you come to Samolo. No good—die.” 

“See here, Bimbo, you can’t talk to me that way. I’m not 
one of the derelicts that die out here at the end of the world. 
I’m just as-” 

But the Black with a sneer of loathing turned his back 
on Ralph and strode toward the row of low shanties that 
spread out on each side of the commissary in irregular 
streets. A gust of wind, followed by heavy drops of rain, 
struck Ralph and his words of protest died in his throat. 
Big Bimbo, his last friend, had turned against him like all 
the rest. It was a pathetic figure in a suit of spattered 
flannel that staggered up the beach. 



The Scarlet Ladder 


41 


The huge negro had reached the narrow passageway be¬ 
tween Gus LeVene’s Casino and the British Canteen before 
Ralph caught up with him. It was going damn low, he 
realized, to beg for the friendship of a worthless Black, but 
then a friend is a friend, and he had lost in the last month 
all race distinction. 

“Just a moment, Bimbo/’ he called. “I’ll get some money 
and pay for your gin. No use being sore. I’m sorry. I 
was drunk and didn’t realize it was the last drop.” 

“That’s what they all talk. All the no good Whites that 
come to Samolo. I do, I get, I give—that what they say. 
They get dead—that’s what they get. Just what you get 
when you starve and no can beg! Quick beat it or I’ll 
smash in you no good head !” 

The deprivation of his much desired eye-opener had ob¬ 
viously attained, in the negro’s mind, to a monstrous crime. 
Ralph realized this and was about to retreat when an object 
directly below a window on the Casino side of the narrow 
passageway caught his gaze. For a moment he stared in 
silence. Then he stooped and snatched it from a crevice 
in the cobblestones. A single glance told him it was a wallet 
—a thick roll of British bank notes of high denomination 
protruded from the pigskin folds. 

It was tucked away in a side pocket by the time Bimbo 
reached him. The African’s beady eyes bulged. A snarl 
curved his thick lips. His chest swelled as he caught 
Ralph’s jacket in the grasp of his massive hand. 

“Give me that cash quick!” he demanded, shaking Ralph 
with angry jerks. “Give to me or I’ll kill you.” 

“I’ll pay you what I owe for the gin,” Ralph managed to 
stutter. “But I found the wallet—it’s mine until the owner 
proves his right to it.” 

Big Bimbo did not answer. With a lightning swing of 
his doubled fist the slender Ralph fell to the cobblestones. 


42 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


A tiny stream of scarlet blood oozed from his jaw where 
the fist struck. He crouched without protest on his hands 
and knees as the huge Black tore the wallet from his pocket 
and shoved it away in his shirt. Then a booted foot 
crashed against his ribs, and the African strode haughtily 
down the passageway, a snickering grin twisting the lines 
of his ebony countenance. 

With a mighty peal of thunder the storm broke, and Ralph 
lay motionless for a moment as the torrent of rain soaked 
his clothes. Then something vital snapped within him—he 
knew not what. In an instant he was himself again—the 
Ralph Weston of days far, far in the past. He had reached 
the bottom of his ladder, the lowest pit of his abyss. It all 
came to him in a flash—he saw, realized just what he really 
was, just how others saw him. A nigger had beaten him 
and cast him aside—the sickening thought pounded inces¬ 
santly through his mind. He was penniless, stranded, a 
derelict thrown up like a bit of jetsam on the shores of 
a far-off island, and now his last chance was gone. Bimbo, 
the African, had dealt the final blow. Bimbo, the beggar, 
the petty thief of Samolo, had shattered his last chance, and 
mastered him like a helpless toy. 

Then Ralph found himself running. Running as he never 
had before. He overtook the Black on the broad veranda 
of the Casino. He was talking with Gus LeVene, the 
proprietor who had thrown them both out the night pre¬ 
vious. He was reaching in his shirt for the wallet, appar¬ 
ently to pay his long over-due bill, and set himself right 
with the rat-like Gus. 

Then Ralph reached the scene and grabbed him by his 
open collar and swung him off the veranda into a puddle of 
fresh mud that had quickly formed from the pouring tor¬ 
rent. Bimbo was taken entirely off his guard. But he 
was a brute of strength and in an instant he regained his 


Tiie Scarlet Ladder 


43 


feet. Ralph faced him squarely, his fists clenched, a wild 
gleam in his dark eyes. 

“I want that wallet of money you stole from me!” he 
demanded. TArnd I want it now! Hand it over you black 
thief or I’ll pound you into the ground! Be quick!” 

“I got no money belong to you! You broke—no good 
white dog,” Bimbo snarled. “Beat it!” 

He made a vicious lunge at the boy’s face and left the 
marks of his nails thereon in bloody streaks. For a second 
the suddenness of the attack stunned Ralph. Then he 
uttered a mad cry and dashed with swinging fists at his 
huge rival. 

The fistic encounter that ensued will never be forgotten by 
the villagers of Samolo who beheld the undeniable triumph 
that stormy morning of a white derelict over a black twice 
his size. In fifteen minutes Big Bimbo lay flat on his back 
in the mud puddle. His nose was broken. Both eyes were 
swollen shut. A nasty cut dripped blood from his cheek, 
and there was not an ounce of fight left in him. He was 
beaten, beaten right into the ground. 

With a ripping jerk Ralph, bending over the fallen figure, 
tore the wallet from the black bosom. Then he stuffed it 
away in an inner pocket and faced the throng of perhaps 
fifty people that had beheld the affray. They were an un- 
homogeneous lot, the gathering that circled him. Arabs 
from the back desert, Egyptians, a scattering of Orientals, 
importers and traders from France and Italy, here and there 
a Dutch sailor or Spanish merchantman, the usual contin¬ 
gent of British remittance men, and every sort of natives 
from oily Kanakas to dark Samoans—the typical population 
of Samolo, that far-off port where junks from Kwangchow 
with cargoes of sandalwood, topsail schooners with spices 
from the South Coast, freighters heavy with Chinese silks 
and Egyptian rugs, passenger liners with importation heads 


44 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


and globe-trotters, war craft from every nation, and tramps 
from everywhere loaded with ironwood and slop merchan¬ 
dise, drop their anchors between the coral breakwaters and 
coal their stomachs from the high heaps that line the docks. 

Ralph had fought squarely and as he faced the throng 
that circled him, he knew the audience for the most part 
favored him. Gus LeVene was plainly one of the oppo¬ 
site faction. A mean frown creased his brow. And then 
as he scanned their faces with a circling glance, Ralph saw 
there were others that favored the beaten Bimbo. 

“I’ve got something to say to all of you!” he cried to the 
crowd in general. “But particularly to you, Gus LeVene, 
and your dirty henchmen. I came here to Samolo a month 
ago, and I came with money, cash and plenty of it. I spent 
freely, and the most of it went for gin and rum in your 
Casino, Gus. You drank with me, and I paid. So did 
your friends. I see ’em standing about you now. I fed 
’em, and I poured ’em drink after drink. A week ago I 
found myself with little money, and I tried to go slow on 
expenses. Your friends, Gus, the men I met through you, 
the jelly-fish I mistook for my companions, what did they 
do when they saw I was going broke after spending my 
coin on them? You know what they did! They passed me 
up as though they never had seen me before. When I sat 
at their tables, they got up and left. They boycotted me, 
and so did you! You threw me out to sleep in a gutter— 
I, who have spent hundreds in your Casino for your rotten 
liquor; I, who played the good fellow. 

“Well, Gus, I've got money again, but I’ve changed. 
I hit the bottom of my ladder when I let a negro run 
over me, and now I'm climbing back! All hell won’t 
stop me, and by the gods, you’ll respect me, Gus, you and 
your dirty henchmen ! From now on I’m Mr. Ralph Weston 
of the United States of America, and if there’s anybody here 


The Scarlet Ladder 


45 


who wants to dispute my right to recognition as a gentleman 
—anybody that’s not going to respect me—let him or them 
step forward!” 

A dead silence held the throng. Gus shifted his eyes 
uneasily and chewed furiously on the fat cheroot that pro¬ 
truded from his lips. Then he grunted something inaudible 
and strode up the steps to the veranda and through the 
swinging portals to his Casino. His gang of henchmen 
followed his lead, one by one. And presently Ralph found 
himself standing alone in the torrent of rain. Bimbo lay at 
his feet motionless, bleeding and unconscious. With effort 
Ralph dragged him out of the rain to the veranda. Then 
he abruptly turned on his heels and strode down the narrow 
shack-sided lane that called itself a street. 


Chapter II 


Ralph was hardly a dozen paces away from the portals 
of Gus LeVene’s Casino, when a short, slender man with 
iron-gray hair and a weather beaten face emerged from the 
structure and followed swiftly in his wake. He was per¬ 
haps sixty-five, this frail man, and his garments plainly 
stamped him as of the sea. A pea-jacket of blue serge, with 
large brass buttons down the front, a merchantman cap of 
similar material with gilt lettering, “Captain,” inscribed on 
the band, and a black flowing cravat, were conspicuous in 
their neatness on his figure. He caught up with Ralph at 
the landing of the first coal dock. Ralph had paused to 
light a cigarette under the balcony of a w T harf warehouse. 

“Just a moment there, Weston!” the old man cried. “I 
want to have a word with you.” 

He advanced and offered his hand. Ralph, puzzled at the 
strange interruption, glanced at the lettering on the stran¬ 
ger’s cap, and accepted the hand. He remembered seeing 
the Captain in the throng that had circled him during the 
fight, and also he recognized the aged seaman as a frequent 
habitue of Gus’ Casino. 

“I’m William Nelson,” he said, shaking Ralph's hand. 
“Captain Nelson of the ‘Blue Gull.’ Independent freighter 
—silks and merchandise from China to Sydney and ’Frisco. 
I saw your fight. Congratulations, Mr. Weston—you’re a 
real Yankee. There’s not many from the States here in 
Samolo, but you can bet we’re proud of you. I’m from 
Portland, myself.” 

“I’m very glad to know you, Captain Nelson. I fear 
though, my appearance and conduct is not much of an 
honor-” but the Captain cut him short. 



The Scarlet Ladder 


47 


“Bosh—don’t get that idea in your head, son. You were 
gallant,” he declared. “And if you’ll accept, you’re my guest 
on the ‘Blue Gull.’ She’s docked down the lane here at 
number six. And, anyway,” he added, pointing out his ship, 
“I want to have a business chat. Will you come?” 

Without waiting for a reply he shoved his arm in Ralph’s 
and kept up a constant chatter as they neared the sixth 
dock. When they had mounted the gang-plank and 
entered a small but very neat and orderly forward-cabin, he 
motioned Ralph to a chair and opened a box of choice 
cigars. Ralph declined and lit one of his own cigarettes. 
Outside through a port-hole the storm was increasing its 
fury. Not until he had taken several puffs from his cigar 
did the Captain speak. Then a queer twinkle came into his 
eyes, which were intensely blue and slightly bulging, and 
a broad grin creased his face. 

“How old are you, Mr. Weston?” he casually inquired, 
scrutinizing Ralph from head to foot. “That is,” he added, 
“if you don’t mind an old man’s curiosity.” 

“I’m twenty-six,” came the answer. 

“Like gin and rum, don’t you ?” 

“I guess I’ve had my share, Captain.” 

“ ’Bout gone the limit, ain't you?” 

“Past the limit, but I think you heard what I told that 
gang in front of the Casino, and, Captain, I meant it, every 
word!” 

“Ever swore off liquor before, son?” 

“A dozen times, but this time I’m through. I never 
realized until this last week just how low I’d gone. This 
morning I hit the bottom of my ladder; now I’m climbing 
back !” 

“Glad to hear it, son, but I don’t believe it. You think 
you’ve had enough, but now that you’ve got that wallet full 
of coin, you won’t desist, you won’t be able to resist, doing 
just what you did before when you had money.” 


48 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


“Sir, I think I can handle my affairs without inter¬ 
ference. I came here as your guest, not to receive a 
lecture. In fact, you fairly forced me to come aboard. 
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going. Good-day.” 

Ralph rose to his feet and crossed to the door they had 
entered. He tried the brass knob. It was locked. Quickly 
he turned about and faced the Captain, a bewildered expres¬ 
sion on his countenance. At first he had taken the Cap¬ 
tain’s rather personal inquiries as nothing more than the 
curiosity of age for youth; now he was angry. He had 
not eaten or bathed. Blood clotted in his hair and had dried 
on his face. He was exhausted from the fight, and now he 
faced a new predicament. 

The aged Captain held an ugly revolver in the grasp of 
a firm hand. He remained seated, but a determined gleam 
had come into his deep, blue eyes. 

“Sit down, Weston,” he commanded, “or I’ll be forced 
to shoot you.” It was obvious that he meant what he said. 

With a shrug of his shoulders Ralph obediently com¬ 
plied. 

“What does this mean ?” he demanded. “Robbery—or 
what ?” 

“It means,” the Captain answered, “that you, Ralph Wes¬ 
ton, are shanghaied. I’ve wanted to find a chap like you for 
five years, and now, thank God, I have. I’ve watched you 
here at Samolo for a month. I’ve seen you drop lower 
and lower, till even the dirty Casino hounds laughed in 
your face, till they refused your drunken company. And 
I’ve selected you for an experiment—selected you as the 
lowest, the filthiest morsel of young manhood on the Paci¬ 
fic. For five years I’ve hunted in every port from Port Said 
to Ceylon to find a chap like you. And now that I’ve got 
you I’m gonna keep you till my experiment has broke or 
made good. You’re shanghaied, Weston, shanghaied and all 


The Scarlet Ladder 


49 


hell can’t get you off this ship. As long as you obey me 
as your Captain you’ll fare well, but one bad move and it’s 
chains in the hold. We sail for China after silk as soon as 
the storm calms. Follow me to your cabin.” 

For a moment Ralph was nonplused. Then he jumped up 
and faced his captor. Conflicting emotions were surging 
through him. He resented his imprisonment and wanted 
to fight, but he saw the futility of it. Undoubtedly the 
Captain had given instructions to his crew. Chained in the 
hold of a freighter on a stormy sea held few merits, and 
this Ralph realized. 

“For the time being I will obey your commands,” he said. 
“But perhaps you’ll not always be in the position you now 
hold. I consider myself a prisoner in the hands of a pirate 
or maniac, I don’t know which.” 

“You’ll soon find out,” came the answer. “And by the 
way, Weston,” apparently a new thought had come to the 
Captain, “I want that wallet I saw you take from the nigger. 
It’s in your inner pocket; you’ll not need it for a few 
months. So hand it over, or shall I have it taken from you ?” 

“You’ll have to take it! I found it and until its owner 
proves his right, it’s mine. I refuse to surrender it!” 

The Captain jerked a cord that hung from a loop-hole 
nearby. The revolver still reposed in his grip. Presently 
a door on the far side of the cabin opened and a young girl 
paused in the oblong frame. She could not have been 
more than eighteen at the most, Ralph guessed as he stared 
at her in surprise, and that she was the most beautiful 
creature he had ever beheld, he knew. 

Her hair and eyes were dark like his own—the first hung 
over her shoulders in long smooth waves, the latter sparkled 
in almond shaped rims with a fringe of long dark lashes 
shading them. She was small and slender, but her curves 
gave promise. Her predominating feature was a red 


50 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


mouth, the color of clear wine when held to the light. It 
was so perfect, so delicately curved, that Ralph could hardly 
take his gaze from it. The Captain’s words roused him. 

“Daughter,” he said, nodding his gray head toward Ralph, 
“this man has my wallet in his inner jacket pocket. Please 
get it for me—he refuses to hand it over.” 

“All right, father,” came the girl’s reply. “Keep your gun 
on him.” 

She advanced to Ralph and jerked open his jacket. Her 
slender hand darted into his pocket and emerged with the 
wallet. Ralph held his silence as long as he could, then 
he blurted out his genuine feelings. 

“So you’re just like your father,” he said. “Both robbers. 
Well, take the wallet, and I hope to heaven it gives you 
pleasure to work together in your stealings.” 

The Captain grinned in enjoyment. But not so with her. 
In an instant she had slapped Ralph across the face with the 
palm of her hand, and loathing burned in her dark eyes. 

“Apologize!” she demanded. “Apologize this minute or 
I’ll shoot you if father doesn’t.” 

“Under the unfair circumstances, I apologize,” Ralph 
said, with a condescending bow. “I hope you’re satisfied.” 

“No, I’m not satisfied.” flared the reply. “And how dare 
you claim this wallet? My father has carried it as long 
as I can remember.” She jerked it open and turned back 
the pigskin flap. “Here is his name—printed right in the 
leather. Now I guess you’ll admit who’s the thief!” 

Ralph stared bewildered at the gilt lettering. It read: 
“Captain William Nelson—Blue Gull—Portland, U. S. A.” 
Unable to understand he remained silent, and gave it up with 
an uncomprehending sigh. After all his months of drunk¬ 
en idleness in the Pacific, things were occurring quite rapidly 
for him of a sudden. But why? Was it because of his 
oath to reform, to come back? Or was it just fate? 


The; Scarlet Ladde;r 


51 


The Captain laughed aloud and beckoned the girl to his 
side. She handed him the wallet and smiled. 

“I’m sorry, father,” she declared, “that I became so angry 
in your presence. But I couldn’t stand for anyone like him 
to call us robbers.” 

“That’s all right, Loma. You did what you thought best. 
You may go now, dear. I’ll tend to our guest.” 

With an angry glance at Ralph, the girl left the room, 
closing the door with a decided bang. The Captain opened 
the wallet and removed the fat roll of British Bank notes. 
He slipped off the rubber band that circled the wad and 
removed the top note. It was marked fifty pounds—be¬ 
neath it was a wad of worthless paper cut in the shape of 
currency. Ralph’s eyes bulged in their sockets as he stared 
at the revelation. Fifty pounds wrapped about a wad of 
worthless paper—what did it mean ? He had expected the 
roll to contain a thousand pounds at least. 

“I didn’t intend to tell you just yet, Weston,” the Captain 
was speaking. “But now’s as good a time as any.” He 
motioned Ralph to a chair and seated himself. The revol¬ 
ver lay nearby on the ledge of a table. Ralph complied and 
sat down. 

“It’s necessary in my little experiment,” he went on, “to 
find somebody like yourself. Somebody that’s gone about 
as low as humans go—that’s reached the bottom. And 
that somebody must be young—you’re just the right age— 
twenty-six you said. And besides, that somebody must 
have guts. Guts to stand up and fight—like you did this 
mornin’. You fill all the requirements, every one. You’re a 
drunkard, you’re a worthless idler, you’re young, and with 
all your weak faults—do you get that?—w-e-a-k faults 
—you’re willin’ to scrap; you’ve got guts. I give you that 
much credit—but that's all. You don’t deserve an ounce 


more. 



52 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


“When I first set my lamps on you was one night at Gus’. 
For five years I’ve been hanging around such dumps hoping 
against hope that I’d find such a wreck as you. And when 
first I saw you dead drunk at a table with a gang of dirty 
cut-throats, I knew you were the young chap I’d been lookin’ 
for. Something seemed to tell me—that was a month ago, 
and since then I’ve watched you night and day. I’ve seen 
you come and go from Ah Gow’s hop dive on the water¬ 
front. I’ve watched you drink with low women in the 
Casino whose very faces displayed the penalty of their vile 
trade. I’ve seen you go lower and lower—do things that 
would sicken a real man. So, Weston, I knew you were 
my man, the lowest man of your age in all the Pacific ports— 
and I set my trap for you. I wanted to find out if you had 
guts. For three days I've tried to drop my wallet where 
you’d have to fight for it. This mornin’ I got a chance, 
and Weston you fought. You’ve got guts, but that’s about 
all. You’re a perfect specimen for my experiment, as per¬ 
fect as I could ever find. 

“And now I’m gonna lay down the law to you. You’ll 
obey or I’ll chain you and I’ll have you horse whipped till 
you can’t even speak. It’ll be a month before we see land 
again, and during that period you're gonna drink more rum 
and gin and whiskey than you ever saw in all your life be¬ 
fore. But you’ll not even smell hop—opium and you are 
strangers—get that ? 

“I don’t care a whoop what made you into the wreck you 
are—women or too much money, I suppose—but that’s what 
you are, a human wreck, and from now on you're my 
specimen—to do what I want with. If you fight you’ll lose, 
I’ve seen to that. And the easier you take it, the better 
you'll fare. Now get up and do as I tell you.” 

From the first word of the Captain’s utterance Ralph re¬ 
mained silent. He realized he was in a dangerous pre¬ 
dicament and no matter what rebellious thoughts surged 


The: Scarlet Ladder 


53 


within him, he held a motionless, composed expression on 
his blood-streaked face and secreted his true emotions from 
his captor. He was at a loss to understand why and for 
what purpose the Captain wanted him. It was true 
he had gone about as low as humans go—liquor, hop and 
women—but what in blazes did the old seaman care if he 
had? Was the old Captain insane?—or what? What did 
he mean by his experiment? Some grotesque test? Un¬ 
able to arrive at a lucid solution Ralph arose as he was 
commanded and preceded his captor through the cabin 
door and down a narrow companionway that hung heavy 
with an odor of dry salt, foul and pungent. Overhead 
brass lanterns swung as the freighter swayed in an incessant 
roll. The continual patter of rain drowned out even the 
roar of the surf that was occasionally visible through small 
copper-lined port holes. They reached a single door at 
the end of the companionway on the aft-side. 

“Stop,” the Captain ordered. And when Ralph obeyed, 
he added: “Weston, you’ll find food and drink and a basin 
to wash in. You’d better get some rest—you’re all in; that 
nigger gave you a battle.” 

Ralph opened the door and stepped in a dingy cabin. 
The only port hole was barred with iron lacing. A small 
mirror, a bunk built in the wall, and a crude stool were the 
only furnishings. He paused and faced the Captain who 
stood in the companionway, the revolver in his hand, a 
broad grin on his lips. 

“For my part, Captain Nelson,” he growled, “you can go 
to hell!” 

The thick door slammed in his face and the sound of a 
lock being snapped was plainly audible. Then he heard the 
Captain laugh, and Ralph gradually calmed his wrath—it 
was useless, he realized, useless to rebel. He was a prisoner, 
and escape was, to all appearances, impossible. 



54 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


For a long time lie sat motionless on the edge of the 
bunk, his head buried in the palms of his hands. Then he 
threw off the conflicting thoughts that throbbed in his mind 
and shifted his gaze to locate the aforementioned basin of 
wash water. Fte found it under the bunk, side by side with 
a loaf of stale bread and a jar of liquid. The basin was 
brim full, and it was not until he dipped his hands in it and 
brought them to his face, that he realized it was gin. And, 
furthermore, the jar contained whiskey and the stale bread 
had been soaked in rum and allowed to harden. 

For a brief moment Ralph Weston stood dumfounded in 
utter amazement. Then he tried to force a smile, but it 
failed miserably. His thoughts revolted within, his eyes 
held a strange gleam. Then he sank back on the bunk and 
seemed to be dreaming, dreaming of something far, far in 
the past—of days gone by. 

Ralph Weston faced a crisis. He had sworn, promised 
himself, that never again would he drink; that he would 
make a man of himself, that he would fight back—up the 
scarlet ladder to the top where success, redemption, and 

respect awaited him.And now he was locked in with 

his three worst enemies—gin, whiskey and rum. 



Chapter III 


It was late into the night, stormy and dismal, when a loud 
knock on the panel of the cabin door awoke Ralph. How 
long he had slept he had no manner of knowing. Hours, he 
judged. The swaying of the ship told him that Captain 
Nelson had put off from Samolo regardless of the bad 
weather. The loud knock sounded again. Ralph rose 
from the bunk and crossed to the door. He noticed the 
basin of gin and the jar of whiskey lay untouched where 
he had left them, in a far corner with the loaf of odorous 
bread. Apparently no one had been in the cabin. 

“Who’s there?” he called. 

“First Mate Sunday,” came the reply in a dull, growling 
voice. “Get yourself ready for deck duty—an' be quick!” 

“I’m as ready now as I’ll ever be,” Ralph retorted. 

“All right. Stand back—I’m coinin’ in !” 

A key turned in the lock and the door swung abruptly 
open. Poised in the thick frame was “Czar” Sunday— 
First Mate of the “Blue Gull.” He was everything that his 
appropriate title suggested. Tall and heavily built, with 
huge hands and a thick bulldog neck. Squinting eyes that 
blurred in watery sockets. A low corrugated brow that 
held a continual scowl; a wide mouth that hung loose with 
mean, colorless lips; and close clipped hair of a sandy 
shade. About his waist circled a leather belt of walnut 
color, from which hung a glistening revolver of high caliber. 
He took in Ralph with a sneering gaze and threw a wink over 
his broad shoulder at a short oily sailor who stood behind 
him. Then he laughed. 

“So this is what Santa Claus brought us,” he snickered. 
“Well, come on, sweet Horace—it’s the deck for yuh.” 


56 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


Ralph did not reply. He realized the hopelessness of re¬ 
belling—the utter futility of fighting. They were numbers, 
and armed, while there was only himself. With downcast 
eyes and clenched fists, he stepped out in the swaying com¬ 
panionway and followed the oily sailor toward a visible 
hatchway. The First Mate followed at his heels. When 
they had climbed out of the hatch and on the rain dripping 
deck, he pointed toward a heap of oilskin. 

'‘There’s a slicker for yuh," he snapped. "Slide into it an’ 
lend a hand to that gang by the forward cabin.” 

Ralph complied without a murmur. Fie worked steadily 
and hard with the sweating crew for the better share of three 
rain swept hours. No words were directed toward him 
other than the bellowing orders Czar Sunday issued. Ap¬ 
parently the sailors had been instructed to leave him alone, 
which Ralph far from regretted. They were a heterogeneous 
gang—dark skinned natives from the South Coast, Italians, 
Frenchmen, and a dozen breeds he was unable to classify. 
Finally the work was finished—the storm lulled—and the 
First Mate sorted him out from the others. 

"Back to yer palace, Horace,” he commanded. "Time for 
java.” 

When they reached the dingy cabin the girl, Loma Nel¬ 
son, appeared in the companionway. She bowed sweetly 
to the First Mate and passed Ralph by as though he was 
invisible. When she was out of hearing and had disap¬ 
peared in the direction of her father’s cabin, Czar Sunday 
gave vent to his feelings. 

"Some hot morsel—that skirt," he said. "I’ll lay my bet 
on her any day.” 

Then he shoved Ralph in the cabin, and slamming the 
barrier, locked it. In a glance Ralph saw that someone 
had visited his prison while he had labored on the deck. 
Although the loaf of bread had disappeared, the jar and 


The Scarlet Ladder 


57 


basin remained. On the bunk lay a razor and strop, a tube 
of shaving cream and a much used brush. On the stool 
rested a small tray of steaming food. 

Ralph lost no time in throwing off his wet slicker and 
diving into the dishes of simple foods. With the first bite of 
warm vegetables he dropped his knife and fork and spat 
out the mouthful on the floor. Tasting each dish, one by 
one, verified his suspicion—the foodstuffs had been flavored 
with gin, whiskey and rum. The pot he supposed to be 
coffee contained hot rum. The soup was a sickening mixture 
of gin and beans. The mashed potatoes were flavored with 
raw whiskey. Hungry as he was, the latter was all he 
could bear to consume. For an hour he utterly ignored the 
steaming pot of rum. Then he drank one small sup. After 
that he shaved precariously with a lather of gin and soap. 
Once he paused to drink a cup of the warm rum. When 
he had finished he took another. Then another after that. 
The pot dripped its last drop and Ralph fell into his bunk 
dead drunk. A mantle of slumber enveloped him almost in¬ 
stantly. Captain Nelson had spoken the truth—his promise 
had meant nothing, his oath had crumbled. 

Presently the sound of a key in the cabin door became 
audible, but not loud enough to rouse Ralph. The door 
opened and Captain Nelson quietly entered. From a jug 
he carried under his arm, he filled the empty pot, and also 
the basin from which Ralph had shaved. Then he stood 
over the sleeping youth and grinned. 

“What did I tell you, son,” he mumbled to himself. “I 
told you you were weak, and I was right. It's a shame.” 

A noise in the dimly illuminated companionway startled 
him. Loma stood motionless in the open door, an expres¬ 
sion of astonishment on her olive tinged countenance. Her 
dark eyes under their long lashes stared at her father. 

“Why, why father—what are you doing here this time of 
night?” she inquired, befuddled. “I missed you and thought 


58 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


there might be something wrong. Has anything serious 
happened ?” 

“Nothing at all, Loma,” the Captain replied in a stern 
voice. “You will kindly retire to your cabin, and after this 
stay away from this end of the companionway. Good¬ 
night !” 

A nervous gleam shone in his blue eyes. He resembled 
a schoolboy caught in a naughty prank by a scolding 
teacher. Loma bowed and swiftly disappeared toward her 
own cabin, and it was not until the closing of her door 
sounded that the Captain regained his composure and, lock¬ 
ing securely the barrier, followed in her wake. 

Reaching the private realm of his forward cabin he lit 
a brass lamp that cast dim shadows on the swaying walls, 
and seated himself at a small desk built in the side of the 
ship. From a drawer he procured a ledger and turned to 
a definite page. Under the dim illumination, it read: 

THE CASE OF RALPH WESTON 


Age 26 . American. Drunkard. Opium. 


FIRST DAY 

Fell for wallet and licked nigger. Plenty of guts — 
but weak. Don’t savy what pulled him so low. Wom¬ 
enf Grief? Or money? 


FIRST NIGHT 

Worked him like hell under Czar. Crew and daugh¬ 
ter don’t know why I shanghaied him. Went to sleep 
dead drunk from gin and rum. Wrote the above be¬ 
fore I saw him—I knew. 

For a long while the Captain stared at the notations in 
silence. Then he mumbled something inaudible and added 
in a scribble after the last word a single line. “And I was 
right"—it read. With a crafty grin he slid the ledger away 
and closed the drawer. 





The Scarlet Ladder 


59 


By the time Captain Nelson had left his cabin, made his 
way up the hatch to the wet deck, and reached the forward 
pit, the watch had changed with the dull ringing of a gong, 
and he found his First Mate at the wheel. The bulky Czar 
nodded a curt greeting and lent an alert ear. 

“Remember what I told you about the fellow,” the Cap¬ 
tain instructed in a gruff voice. “He’ll be drunk in the 
mornin’, Czar. I ut pull him out at dawn and work him with 
the crew if you have to lick him, but go easy. No gun play 
or bolos, and pass the word to the crew that he’s to be left 
alone. No talkin’ to him, or anything. Them’s my orders, 
Czar, an’ I want ’em obeyed.” 

“Just as you say, Captain,” the First Mate replied. “I’ll 
have him workin’—don’t fear. And in a week he'll be as 
tame as a lamb. I’ve met up with his kind before.” 

“Well, don’t be too sure of yourself,” was all the Captain 
answered. Then he turned on his heels and disappeared 
across the rain swept deck toward the hatchway. 

A mean scowl twisted the lines of Czar Sunday’s ugly 
face to a loathing expression. He eyed the Captain’s de¬ 
parture with bead-like balls of hate. Flis moist hands 
clutched the wheel in a tight grip. Cold drops of sweat 
formed on his corrugated brow. 

“God!—how I love you," he snarled. “Some day you'll 
not be handin’ me out your damn orders. Some day i’ll 
get you—1 don’t forget all the things you’ve done to me in 
the last year as quick as you think, i ll collect an’ i 11 col¬ 
lect plenty!” 


Chapter IV 


On a bright tropical afternoon seven days from the start 
of Ralph Weston’s imprisonment aboard the freighter, “Blue 
Gull,” as the ward of Captain Nelson, let us peer over the 
aged seaman’s shoulder and scan the scribbled notations 
in the ledger that lays on his desk. He has turned the 
leaves to the page marked, “The case of Ralph Weston,” and 
he reads each line with deliberate care. A cynical smile 
creeps over his weather-beaten features as he notes the ob¬ 
vious progress of his experiment. He is alone in his cabin; 
the crew and his daughter are enjoying the warm sunshine 
on deck. It is the initial day of good weather since leaving 
Samolo: 


SECOND DAY 

Still drunk at dawn. Dragged on deck by Czar. Re¬ 
fused to work—knocked cold by Czar with black-jack. 
Carried to cabin and left alone with pot of hot rum and 
jar of whiskey. At sunset found both jar and pot 
empty—he was sleeping. Left him a tray of grub — 
seasoned with gin. At two bells he had eaten the junk 
and was drunker than ever. Left him lying on floor. 

THIRD DAY 

Still drunk. Eats all the grub we give him and drinks 
every drop of liquor. Sobered up this afternoon and 
shaved with gin lather. Loma is worried. Suspicious 
of my actions. Heard that she's been questioning the 
crew and keeping tab on the liquor supply. Shall I tell 
her? Truth?—or lie?—At midnight the specimen went 
on a drunken rampage in his cabin. Broke everything 
breakable—a damn good sign — he'll win out yet. 


LOURTH DAY 

Czar got him to scrub companionway after a punch 
or two. Specimen too drunk to fight. Loma questioned 
me on deck. Lorced to tell her to mind her own af¬ 
fairs. She thinks I’m crazy — can’t help it. I’ll keep up 
my experiment or die. Specimen carried to cabin at 
noon. Tainted from exhaustion. Gave him the usual 
liquor and food. Dead drunk at sunset. Didn’t shave — 
first good sign. Hope he don’t kill himself. 




The: Scarlet Ladder 


61 


FIFTH DAY 

Loma woke me at dawn and said she smelled opium 
in companionway. I rushed to specimen and found him 
sleeping on the floor. Loma was right about opium — 
odor came from crezv quarters. Will investigate. 
Found Czar at wheel—he was drunk and smelled of 
hop. Sent him below. Something wrong with crew. 
Mutiny? Czar asked me if this was a prison-ship. 
Told him to go to hell. Specimen still drunk at two- 
bells. Eating regular. He’ll win—if he lives. 


SIXTH DAY 

Worked specimen on deck this morning. He picked 
a scrap with Czar and three of the crew. He put up a 
good fight. Loma got wild and spoiled it by interfer¬ 
ing when Czar clubbed specimen with black-jack. She 
made me give Czar hell and had one of the boys wash 
specimen’s cracked head. Dragged him to his cabin and 
left him with liquor. I saw him at sunset—drunk as 
usual. He’s got guts. Gradually overcoming weak¬ 
ness. I can see the change coming. Crew and Loma 
think I’m insane. Czar getting nasty—must take him 
down a notch. Specimen asked me what the devil I was 
trying to do with him. He’ll know when I get damn 
good and ready to tell him. Saw Loma sneaking down 
companionway at dusk. Wonder what’s up? 


SEVENTH DAY 

Saw specimen at cabin this morning. He looks sick. 
Didn’t touch liquor or food. Shaved and washed him¬ 
self in gin. He’s beginning to hate liquor. Says he 
can’t eat unless he gets plain grub. Tried to rush me 
but I calmed him with revolver. Everything’s going 
just as I expected with him. Loma avoiding me. Czar 
standing in too good with crew. Shall I tell them? 
No—Loma might cause a fuss. Will see specimen 
this afternoon. 


Captain Nelson eyed for a moment his last notation. 
Then he shoved the ledger away in the drawer and strode 
out of the cabin. He met his First Mate in the companion- 
way. Czar Sunday advanced swiftly and nodded toward 
Ralph’s cabin. A snickering grin curved his loose lips. 

“Glad I saw yuhhe growled. “Maybe you’d like to 
know that yer beloved daughter is visitin’ with our honorable 




62 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


guest. Saw her go in his cabin a minute ago. Didn’t think 
yuh wanted him to be entertained.” 

The Captain did not reply. Shoving his First Mate 
aside, he walked hurriedly down the narrow companionway, 
a frown creasing his tanned brow. Czar followed several 
paces in his rear, his grin broadening with each step. With¬ 
out knocking, the Captain jerked open the door and hesi¬ 
tated on the threshold. His fists were clenched and his 
complexion tinged to a scarlet hue. Czar stood behind 
him, his thick arms folded across his broad chest, his legs 
spread wide apart. Then the Captain advanced a step and 
muttered an oath. The First Mate laughed. 


Chapter V 


For an hour following the termination of Captain Nel¬ 
son’s morning visit, Ralph had sat on the edge of his bunk 
and racked his mind for some plausible solution of the pre¬ 
dicament in which he had been involved for the seven days 
past. Thoughts came to him that suggested various methods 
of escape. All were conflicting, and none actually solved his 
problem. He firmly believed the aged Captain to be in¬ 
sane—mad with some passionate mania. What his inten¬ 
tions were he could not so much as guess. The diet of liquor 
was itself unexplainable, and now he had reached the 
stage where he could no longer endure the odor of the rum 
and gin-seasoned foods, let alone digest them. Even the 
whiskey nauseated him, and the sight of the brimming jar 
standing in the corner provoked an utterly disgusted sigh. 
If anyone a month ago had told him that the sight or taste 
of liquor would turn his stomach, he would have thought 
the individual insane, but it had, it absolutely had. That 
he could not deny. 

For the first five days and until the night of the sixth, he 
had managed to keep in a continual state of drunkenness, and 
also he had managed to consume the gin-flavored food, and 
furthermore, he did not detest either, but of course they were 
not any too pleasant, in such a quantity. And then when 
he awoke on the sixth night something he could not under¬ 
stand had come over him. At first he mistook it for sea¬ 
sickness, but the sea was placid and calm and disproved his 
belief. He rose from his bunk and poured out a cup of rum 
from the pot, and it was not until then that he realized that 
he was weaned. The thought took him by storm. Weaned— 
Lord, no!—impossible! But nevertheless it was a fact. 


64 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


The very sight of the liquor provoked dizzy revolts in his 
mind and he crashed the pot and jar against the floor. His 
stomach seemed to be revolting in sickening whirls. He 
paced the dingy cabin from one wall to the other, which had 
only the effect of increasing his suffering. Then he 
stumbled to his knees and vomited and belched for all of an 
hour. When finally the sickening dizziness left him he 
was weak and faint. With effort he crawled into his bunk 
and dozed away in a welcome slumber. 

And now as he sat on the edge of the bunk Ralph realized 
that his weaning from the liquor was for the time per¬ 
fect. He vaguely wondered if Captain Nelson had deliber¬ 
ately attempted to cure him of the drinking habit—it was 
so impossible though that he threw it out of his thoughts 
as preposterous. Why should the aged seaman care about 
his welfare? There was no earthly reason, distant or 
present. So Ralph shifted his thoughts and concentrated on 
methods to pursue in obtaining a smoke. His cigarette 
supply had long been exhausted and he longed for a smoke, 
almost as much as he did for a good warm meal and a pot 
of steaming coffee. 

The pressed straw mattress on his bunk was torn at one 
end and the filling presented possibilities. Jerking out a 
handful of the crisp straw, he rolled it tightly between his 
palms until it was fine and resembled loose tobacco. Then 
he procured a scrap of thin paper that the razor had been 
wrapped in and by exercising the utmost of care, was able 
to fashion a somewhat presentable cigarette. Placing it 
tenderly between his lips he nervously sought a match, but 
soon discovered that there was not so much as a single match 
on his person or anywhere in the cabin. With a brilliant 
vocal display of his emotions, he threw the crude cigarette 
to the floor and ground it beneath his heel. 

“God!” he muttered through clenched teeth, “God! If 


The: Scarlet Ladder 


65 


there was only some way to get out—to have a square 
chance . . . .” 

A light rap on the locked door interrupted him. It 
sounded again. Then the lock snapped and the door abruptly 
swung open. The girl, Loma Nelson, quickly entered and 
closed the door behind her. She held a small tray lit¬ 
tered with foodstuffs on her arm, and without a word she ad¬ 
vanced and placed it on the bunk. Then she faced Ralph, 
who stood rigid in bewilderment, and smiled. 

“You'd better eat,” she said, motioning toward the food. 
“No telling when father’s liable to hear of what I’ve done.” 

“Well, this, this is indeed a surprise,” Ralph managed to 
stutter. “But perhaps I hadn’t better touch it—the Captain 
might punish you. He’s so very, very strict about my diet. 
Real food might harm me, he thinks.” 

“No, you go right ahead and eat. He’s my father and I 
love him, but I’ve found out what he’s been feeding you and 
I couldn’t bear to think how much you must be suffering— 
it’s terrible, Mr. Weston. I—I don’t, I can’t imagine what’s 
come over him on this voyage. He’s never acted this way 
before—sometimes I’m afraid to be near him. It’s horrible 
to talk that way about my own father, but Mr. Weston, I 
think he has gone—gone insane. Something surely has 
happened.” 

“Well, Miss Nelson, there’s some distinction in being his 
initial specimen in whatever he’s trying to do,” Ralph 
forced a smile. “But, honestly, I hardly consider the treat¬ 
ment I’ve been receiving as a compliment. You’re the first 
one aboard that seems to think I may be made of human 
flesh and blood. And I want to thank you for saving me the 
other day from that bull-necked Mate and his gang. They’d 
probably have killed me if you hadn’t interfered, and I’m 
sorry I wasn’t conscious long enough to thank you then.” 

“I did nothing extraordinary,” the girl replied. “They 
were three to one, and I wouldn’t stand for it, that’s all. 


66 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


But we mustn’t talk about that now. Father’s liable to 
come any minute—and here,” she drew a brass key from 
her bosom and handed it to Ralph, “is the only passkey. 
Hide it, and when we get to port make your escape.” 

Ralph slipped the key in the flap of his shirt cuff and 
made positive that it could not drop. Then he sat down 
beside the tray of food and began to eat, for he was un¬ 
deniably hungry and the odor of good food, after seven days 
of liquor-flavored morsels, stirred his appetite anew. Loma 
sat opposite him on the far side of the tray. For a moment 
neither spoke. Then when she saw that he was enjoying 
the meal, she curved her red lips to a sweet smile. Almost 
instantly, however, a frown creased her brow and the smile 
vanished. 

“I’m worried,” she declared. “Frankly worried. Father’s 
acting so queer, and Czar, the First Mate, is doing some¬ 
thing odd with the crew ; everything seems to be going wrong 
all at once. I can’t understand why he’s treating you this 
way, or what it all means. Have you ever known him in the 
past? Or Jack, my brother?” 

“No,” Ralph replied between bites, “I’ve never even seen 
Captain Nelson before meeting him at Sainolo. And I didn’t 
know he had a son.” 

“Oh, well!” Loma exclaimed, “Father hasn’t a son now. 
He died nearly six years ago; died at Port Said. You 
know, Mr. Weston, that gives me an idea—I hadn’t even 
thought of before. It’s not a very nice topic to talk about, 
but it may have something to do with the way he’s treating 
you.” She paused and threw Ralph a sharp glance. “You’re 
a drunkard, aren’t you, Mr. Weston? And he said you 
were a hop fiend—are you ?” 

For a moment Ralph did not answer. Then a cynical 
expression swept over his face and he leaned back against 
the wall of the bunk restfully. A cold gleam came to his 
dark eyes. 


The: Scarlet Ladder 


67 


“Until I came aboard this ship, Miss Nielson/’ he replied, 
“I was in the habit of occasionally hitting the pipe, as they 
call it. And until last night I.was a drunkard that loved 
his liquor. Loved it even more than life itself. But if I 
continue to feel as I do right now I’ll never drink another 
drop—or even smell opium. I guess I’m cured. I’ve had 
so much in the past week that even the sight nauseates me. 
Whatever your father is trying to do, he’s sure ruined 
my good taste for liquor, and I’ve been too sick and too 
drunk to even miss my hop.” 

“I didn’t mean to be rude, or personal,” Loma said after 
a moment of silence. “The reason I asked is because Jack, 
my brother, died at a British Hospital in an insane fit. 
He had followed in father’s footsteps since he was fifteen. 
At twenty, opium and rum drove him insane. He was in 
a horrible condition, and died a year later. From that time 
until this, father has never taken a single drink. He blames 
himself for his son’s death. I wonder if it has anything to 
do with you? Perhaps the thought has caused him to—to 
become mentally unbalanced. What do you think?” 

“To be real frank, Miss Nelson,” Ralph replied, “I agree 
with you. It’s unfortunate, but your father must be un¬ 
balanced. But that doesn’t answer the question of why he’s 
picked on me for whatever it is he’s doing. I guess he 
wanted about the lowest specimen of young manhood he 
could find, and in picking me, I guess he got it. I’ve gone 
pretty low, Miss Nelson, in the last year—I’ve dropped to the 
bottom of the ladder. Deeper than you’d even dare to 
imagine. But something happened to me the morning I 
came aboard at Samolo, something disgraceful that showed 
me how utterly low I was, and I made up my mind that 
I was going back up the scarlet ladder if it killed me, and 
then I met your father, Captain Nelson, and you know the 
rest. I thought I was done with liquor when I came 



68 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


aboard this ship. Blit your father said my promises 
wouldn’t last a week, and he was right. I don’t know 
how long this spell I'm in now will last, but I’m going to 
try my hardest to leave it alone, and I can’t do any more 
than that. I don’t know,” he added, after a pause of silence, 
“why I’m telling you all these things, Miss Nelson. If I’ve 
annoyed you, I'm sorry.” 

“You most certainly have not annoyed me,” Loma quickly 
answered. “I am deeply interested. And I know Mr. 
Weston, that you’re going to stick by your promise. When 
I first saw you that morning in the -forward-cabin you 
looked just like one of the common derelicts you see every¬ 
where out here in the Pacific—the dry blood on your face 
and the mud on your clothes had a lot to do with it— 
and that’s honestly what I thought you were. But on the 
few occasions since that I’ve seen you when you were shaved 
and clean, I knew your were not like the others—the crew, 
Czar and that bunch. That’s what first made me question 
father. He told me about getting you aboard with his 
wallet, and when I inquired for what purpose, he scowled 
and refused to answer—that's what made me investigate, 
and has led me to coming here. I knew, Mr. Weston, that 
you were different. Sounds trite, doesn’t it? Dramatic 
and all that, but you are different, and I know that there 
has been a day in the past when you were a gentleman, and 
all the title implies. I’ll bet I’m not far from being right, 
am I ?” 

“You’re wrong, Miss Nelson,” Ralph replied. “I’ve always 
been a drunkard, a.” 

And it was then that the door swung on its rusty hinges 
and revealed Captain Nelson and his First Mate standing in 
the companionway. The Captain advanced, his eyes bulg¬ 
ing, his cheeks flushed an angry crimson. 

"What the devil do you mean by this, Loma?” he cried. 
"I gave orders to stay away from this cabin! I'm Captain 



The: Scarlet Ladder 


69 


on this ship—an’ you’ve disobeyed me.” Before Loma could 
reply or Ralph could come to her aid, he turned and faced 
his First Mate. “Place her under arrest, Czar,” he com¬ 
manded, “and take her to my cabin!” 

“Just a minute, Captain,” Ralph leaped to his feet and 
stood before Loma. “There’s nothing wrong in your daugh¬ 
ter coming here. She pitied me, knew that I must be 
starving, and she did no more than what was right. I 
demand that you allow her to go to her own cabin un¬ 
escorted—as man to man I demand it!’’ 

“Stand out of my way!’’ the Captain shouted, his fists 
raised, his eyes blazing. “Stand out of my way or it’s chains 
in the hold for you. Do you hear me ?—move!” 

Ralph held his ground firmly. Loma stepped to his side. 
Czar advanced, his jaw hung in a set thrust. 

“I hear you, Captain,” came the reply in a calm voice, 
“and I respect your position, but I refuse to move until 
Miss Nelson leaves this cabin of her own volition.” 

Loma crossed to the door and turned facing her father 
and Ralph. Czar stood in readiness at one side. 

“If you want me, father,” she said, “Til be in my cabin. 
I know you don’t mean what you say—you were just 
angry.” Then she spoke directly to Ralph. “Thank you, 
ever and ever so much,” she said. “I must be going. I’ve 
enjoyed my visit immensely, Mr. Weston. Good day.” 

With a smile she stepped out of the cabin and disappeared 
down the companionway. Ralph could not suppress a faint 
grin. The Captain eyed him angrily for a moment, then 
he turned and cast his First Mate a mean glance. 

“Beat it!” he growled. “Upper deck—and stay there!” 

When Czar had sulked down the companionway mutter¬ 
ing a stream of inaudible curses, the Captain motioned 
Ralph to be seated on the bunk. Then he shoved his hand 
in the side pocket of his pea-jacket, and Ralph knew that it 


70 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


fingered a revolver, which momentarily quelled his desire 
for revolt. 

“Want a shot of gin?” he snarled the question. “Or a bit 
of rum?” 

“No,” Ralph replied. “No, thank you.” 

“Maybe you’d like a nip of bonded whiskey, what say?” 
“At present I’m not drinking,” came the reply. 

The Captain chuckled. 

“You’re not so damn weak as I expected,” he declared. 
Then he turned on his heels and strode out of the cabin. 
The door locked with a click. Ralph was left alone. 


Chapter VI 


For a long while after the aged seaman had departed, 
Ralph paced the floor of his cabin from one wall to the 
other. Through the chambers of his mind mingled a mass 
of tangled thoughts and recollections of the past. To begin 
with he realized it had taken him four solid years of living 
hell to reach the pit Samolo had found him in, and only 
ten minutes to fall headlong in love; which presented a 
problem in itself. 

Loma had seemed in their brief conversation the ideal girl 
(who the devil was he to have ideals, he asked himself) ; 
she was just the opposite of his own self, he knew, in every 
detail. Where she had succeeded, he had failed, and for 
the first time Ralph actually regretted his plunge. But it 
was too late for that now, he realized; to climb back and 
redeem himself was all that remained, and Ralph was de¬ 
termined. Not alone because she inspired him (or for any 
other sentimental reason), but because in the past week 
he had seen himself in the light that others saw him. First 
it had been Big Bimbo, the “nigger”; now it was Loma. 
Ralph realized she pitied him just as she would anything 
weak and helpless, and the realization of his disgrace for the 
second time in his life throbbed like a burning torch through 
his mind Why hadn’t he thought of these things before ?— 
he asked himself. There was no answer, no answer what¬ 
ever. 

Then he paused and stood rigid, facing the port side off 
the cabin. Above his head a stream of golden sunlight 
poured in the dingy port hole. A tiny circle of blue marked 
the sky. For a moment Ralph Weston held a dead silence, 
his eyes riveted on the circle of sun tinged blue. Then he 
spread apart his legs, clenched his fists, and stretched out 


72 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


an arm above his head. A firm, determined expression 
gripped his features. 

“God!” he cried, “I’m not so vain as to imagine you’ll 
hear me; I don’t expect it and I don’t deserve it! But I’m 
making this oath beneath your Heaven and under your judg¬ 
ment, and as I stand here, it is the oath of my life. If I am 
so weak as to fail may your hand sweep me from this earth— 
may you wreck me to everlasting doom ! For the first time in 
four years I speak your name in reverence; I beg your judg¬ 
ment, good God. And this is my oath—common as it may 
be,’’ he paused and bit his lips. “I swear never to drink a 
drop of liquor as long as I live, and never to touch opium 
again. I swear it, good Lord, swear it with all my heart. 
I’ve reached the bottom, but now I’m going back, back to the 
top of my ladder, where I’ll prove my worth to those I’ve 
wronged, make myself a real man, and I mean what I say. 
I mean it, so help me, God!” 

* * * 

There had been a time deep in the past when Ralph Wes¬ 
ton, only son of Grover J., the famous Western Governor, 
had been exactly the gentleman that Loma had called him. 
Since his initial year at college he had slipped gradually from 
that pedestal, and then fell with a plunge to the very bottom. 
At college he had mixed with the wrong set, and that had 
been the beginning. Liquor was his weakness; he loved it; 
it was his playmate, his side-kick at first, and later his 
conqueror. There ensued one drunken party after another 
at college with the inevitable climax—he was suspended in 
disgrace. But Ralph didn’t seem to care; he saw it coming 
and rather welcomed the diversion—it offered him a wider 
field for his playground. And so it occurred that into the 
man-about-town crowd he plunged, which was the second 
step of his descension. It was not long before his name was 
linked in scandals, and on several occasions it was only his 


The Scarlet Ladder 


73 


father’s wealth and political position that saved him from 
arrest on various petty charges. 

Ralph was the only son, and Grover J. Weston loved him 
dearly. All his desires and ambitions were wrapped in 
the future of his namesake, and try as he did by a hundred 
methods to stop Ralph’s reckless, drunken and scandalous 
existence, he failed. He would cut off his allowance and 
Ralph would live on his friends or starve himself in the 
back room of a water front saloon. He would lecture him 
and Ralph would faithfully promise to reform—next day he 
would be as drunk as ever. Thus it continued—Ralph as 
the burden of his father’s life, going deeper and deeper 
with each passing night. 

Finally the time came when Grover J. Weston distin¬ 
guished himself as the foremost Western Governor, and the 
press found it excellent sensational news to publish stories 
of Ralph’s drunken escapades. These slanderous articles 
increased until the Governor was nearly tempted to pub¬ 
licly disown the one-time pride of his heart, and then a 
very startling thing occurred. 

War was declared with Germany. When America took 
up arms, Ralph, overwhelmed with patriotic spirit, enlisted 
in the U. S. Marine Corps. It was a joyous day for his 
father when Ralph was sent to a Southern training camp, for 
he hoped that the Service would mould his son’s character 
and make him into the real man that he had prayed for. 
Tears dimmed his eyes as the troop-train pulled out of the 
crowded terminal, but Grover J. was happy, happier than 
he had been at any time since his son’s first failing. 

One month later, a personal friend, Colonel Dunel Upton, 
wrote Governor Weston a very private letter and informed 
him that his son had deserted the Service, and that he was 
last seen in a saloon at San Francisco by a soldier on leave- 
of-absence who tried to make him re-don his uniform and 
return to the camp. But Ralph, so the soldier reported to 


74 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


Colonel Upton, refused and in a drunken voice declared that 
he was “done with the rotten Service forever.” 

And that was the last word Governor Weston heard from 
his wayward son, and it broke his heart. Fortunately, he 
was able to suppress the disgraceful incident from the 
press—that was his only consolation. And from that day 
on—over four years—the Governor had lived with but one 
desire, one hope—that sometime his son would return— 
come back as a man, a real man and redeem himself in the 
face of his country, wipe out the disgraceful blotch from his 
character. * + * 

After his desertion from the army, Ralph woke one 
day from a drunken daze that had lasted the better part 
of a month, and found himself in a dive at Honolulu. 
Then he hit the square-necked bottles again until he saw 
light in a Sydney waterfront bar. Opium got him at 
Peking for the first time. He bathed in rum at Ceylon, 
and then a windjammer dropped him at Samolo. Four 
years it had taken to make that voyage from one dumping 
place to the next, four years of living hell, and Ralph enjoyed 
every conscious moment of it until that morning at Samolo 
—then something had snapped, something vital. The curtain 
had lifted and he had seen himself as the degenerate he was; 
the worthless drunkard that his love for liquor had made him. 

That day in the saloon at San Francisco when he had 
realized he was a deserter from the Marine Corps, a fugi¬ 
tive from the justice of his nation, and that he had prob¬ 
ably broken his father’s heart, Ralph knew he was too much 
of a coward to turn back. It meant prison, confinement, 
and, most of all, facing his father. So Ralph poured him¬ 
self another drink and took the only alternative. Since 
then and until that morning at Samolo he had refused to 
think, refused to consider, and now here he was swearing 
in the name of God to fight back; throw off his hampering 
habits and face the music; and above all, be a man, a real 
man. 

And it so occurred that Ralph Weston took his oath. 


Chapter VII 


Perhaps there is no better manner to cover the days that 
followed the scene in the cabin with Loma and her father 
and Ralph, than to glance over the brief notations recorded 
in Captain Nelson’s ledger. Although the comments are 
handwritten and scribbled, they tell the events in pos¬ 
sibly the swiftest and most concise manner. Beginning 
with the following day—they read : 

EIGHTH DAY 

Specimen recovering—refuses liquor and gin food. 

Shaved with usual lather. Refused to \talk to me. 

Seems to be doing a lot of thinking. I have hopes. 


NINTH DAY 

Loma mad at me. She thinks I’m crazy; I guess 
she likes the specimen. Saw him at noon. Told him 
I wouldn’t give him food till he drank a jar of gin. 
Left him with gin. Returned at midnight. Gin not 
touched. He asked me if I was going to an asylum 
when we get to China. I told him maybe he was. 
Left him with liquor and no food. 


TENTH DAY 

Saw him at dawn. Liquor untouched. Hasn’t eaten 
for two days. Refused a shot of zvhiskey. He’s got 
more guts than sense. Left him with liquor and prom¬ 
ised him a meal if he’d drink. 


ELEVENTH DAY 

Liquor not touched. By gad, he’s better than I ex¬ 
pected. Doing fine. Gave him his first real meal at noon. 
Loma forced me to do it. Cried and made a big fuss. 
Specimen didn’t even thank me—asked about Loma. 
Wonder if he knew she sent food? 


TWELFTH DAY 

Heard row on deck at dawn. Found specimen knock¬ 
ing hell out of Czar. Loma watched tight from poop. I 
let him tight and held back crew. He knocked Czar un- 






76 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


conscious, then bowed to Loma and returned to his 
cabin and locked himself in. Questioned her and found 
out that Czar had been flirting with her. How did 
specimen know? Loma must have passkey. 


THIRTEENTH DAY 

Give specimen regular meals but nothing to drink 
but liquor. He won’t drink. Can’t make him. Saw 
him at dusk—he had a jar of water. Loma told me 
she gave it to him. I tried to give her fifts but she 
left me talking. That is what I get for giving her a col¬ 
lege education—should have kept her aboard ship. 


FOURTEENTH DAY 

Docking at Shanghai, N. E. China tomorrow at dawn. 
Specimen same as yesterday. Loma gave him water 
again—refuses to touch liquor. I zvill put him in chains 
tonight—’fraid he’s gonna make a break for shore. 
Wonder if Loma has gone and fallen in love with him? 
Damn i those college educations. Maybe I’m crazy—? 


FIFTEENTH DAY 

With the aid of Czar and three sailors got specimen 
chained in hold—he put up a great scrap. Everything 
zvas going fine when Loma zvas out of sight—then she 
appeared arid gave me the devil. Never figured on her 
when I began this little experiment. Why are women 
so dang fussy? Guess I will go crazy if I try to figure 
that out. How long shall I test specimen? When shall 
I tell him zvhy I’m doing it? Docked at wharf eleven 
this morning—Czar and crew on shore leave — they’re 
acting funny. Wonder what’s up? Loma brought spec¬ 
imen food and zmter in hold .this afternoon. I offered 
him zvhiskey—he laughed in my face and refused. I in¬ 
tend to go ashore tonight for business reasons. May 
sign for cargo voyage to Southampton, Eng. Wonder 
if specimen zvill like the cruise? Suez Canal and Medi¬ 
terranean are nice this time of year but the English 
Channel nod so good. 

And now that we have read what Captain Nelson has to 
say, let us take a glance at Ralph in his prison, deep in the 
hold of the “Blue Gull.” He is chained with mammoth iron 
links to the thick ribs of the ship, while the only light that 
pierces the gloomy shadows circles a swinging lantern that 
hangs from a beam above his head. His chains allow him 





The Scarlet Ladder 


77 


space to rest on a heap of straw and walk a single pace in 
each direction, or for diversion he may sit on the nearby 
crates of cargo. It is the evening of the day the “Blue 
Gull” docked at wharf eleven on the crowded waterfront at 
Shanghai. Outside, the rows of shaded lamps and swinging 
lanterns reflect their colored glows on the shimmering 
waters of the Oriental harbor. Windjammers, junks and 
tramp freighters jam side by side on the narrow docks. 
Along the cobblestone landing, dark dives and hop joints 
lean against the cargo warehouses, and on the crooked 
little passageways that call themselves streets, one may find 
men from every port in every nation—and women, too. 
It is a mean spot, this waterfront quarter of the Chinese 
metropolis of over a million yellow peoples; and when 
the pongee shades are drawn and night descends with a 
mantle of darkness, sinister figures and crouching shadows 
lurk in the dark corners. It has been said that in Shanghai 
one finds Barbary Coast, the Bowery, and Panama’s Cocoa- 
nut Grove, combined, which is decidedly not a compliment 
to the rising civilization of China. But let us return to the 
hold of the “Blue Gull.” 

Ralph paces his prison as far as his chains will permit. 
His expression is that of a man who has grown weary of 
his burden. The past two weeks of strenuous exertion show 
plainly in his facial lines—it is not hard to imagine what he 
has gone through, both physical and mental. Within reach 
a jar of whiskey stands untouched, and also a partly empty 
basin of water that Loma has brought on a previous visit. 
He is clean shaven and an attempt at combing his hair has 
obviously been made. 

Presently the slam of a trap-door closing over a hatch¬ 
way becomes audible and a figure gradually emerges from 
the rim of darkness. It is Loma. She advances, a pretty 
smile curving her features and displaying a perfect row of 
pearly teeth; her black hair is twined about her shapely head 


78 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


in a manner distinctly becoming. She is pretty, deliciously 
pretty, and the smile that beams on Ralph’s face verifies 
the assertion. 

“Oh, Ralph!” she cried—apparently their friendship has 
developed to intimacy in the passing days—“I never thought 
I’d be able to get them.” She displayed a ring of large iron 
keys from the fold in her dress. “Father just left for shore 
this minute—he’s awfully suspicious of me. Hid the keys 
in the forward-cabin, but I found them.” 

“That’s wonderful of you, Loma,” Ralph declared, “but 
I’m afraid you’re risking a lot to get me out of this mess. 
Your father seems to need me so terribly much there’s no 
telling what he may do to you when he discovers I’m gone. 
Perhaps I’d better stay.” 

“No, Ralph—you must go. Father’s not responsible for 
what he’s doing these last days, and I’m not going to see 
you suffer any longer. Somebody’s got to redeem for what 
he does, and I can’t imagine what he’s liable to do to you 
next. It’s not right for me to think that way of my own 
father, but what else can I think after the way I’ve seen 
him act?” 

“It’s true, Loma,” Ralph replied, “but Captain Nelson 
is not himself, or what I'd imagine him to be when normal. 
I can’t understand him; I don’t profess to. But I still 
think it’s a cowardly trick for me to run out on you this 
way and leave you to take the blame when you’ve done so 
much for me already. I’m going to refuse your kind offer 
for escape after all; I couldn’t go. It would be playing the 
role of a cad to the limit, and I won’t. I appreciate your 
wonderful kindness, Loma, but I will not leave you to face 
the music alone.” 

“Ralph!” Loma inserted one of the iron keys in the near¬ 
est lock, “I’ll never forgive you as long as I live if you don’t 
go immediately. I’ve had a hard enough time with father, 
and now if you’re going to rebel, I’ll give up!” 


The: Scarlet Ladder 


79 


Ralph did not reply. With dexterous fingers Loma un¬ 
locked the chains fro mhis wrists and ankles. Then she 
faced him squarely. 

“Please, Ralph, please,” she pleaded, “leave at once. I’m 
afraid of father for—for your sake. He’ll not harm me; 
that I know, but it’s—it’s you he may do something to. 
Something terrible—so for my sake, go. Save me that con¬ 
stant fear I’ve lived under on this voyage, and please go. I 
beg it, Ralph—please.” 

Slipping the iron cuffs from his body Ralph followed 
Loma through the stacks of cargo crates and up the hatch¬ 
way in silence. It was night outside on the deserted 
deck; a few stars and a heavily veiled moon made a feeble 
attempt at light; close by the narrow dock rested in a cloak 
of darkness; at the forward end a single guard paced the 
poop-deck, otherwise the freighter lay unwatched. 

In the shadows near the gang plank Loma drew Ralph to 
one side and paused. Her gaze leveled with his and for 
a moment neither spoke. It might not have been, but it 
seemed as though a stray tear dimmed her dark eyes. 
'Sometimes one is mistaken. Ralph must have suspected, 
for he took her slender hand in the palm of his own and 
squeezed it tenderly. Loma forced a smile, and Ralph tried 
to, but failed utterly. It would not have been difficult for 
a stranger to imagine them as lovers, but as has been 
said—one is mistaken, sometimes. 

“You’ve been great, Loma,” Ralph declared after a pause. 
“Just wonderful. There’s no way I can thank you, no vis¬ 
ible way, but I want you to know that I appreciate every¬ 
thing you’ve done. If it hadn’t been for your kindness, I 
don’t know what would have happened. I’m indebted to 
you, Loma, more than I can ever hope to repay, and I won’t 
forget, ever.” 

“I did no more than what was right, Ralph,” came the 
answer. “And now before you go, promise me for the sake 


80 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


of our friendship that you will forget the taste of liquor, 
and above all, that filthy opium habit. Will you promise, 
Ralph ?” 

“I do, Loma. I absolutely do. After the way you’ve 
come to my aid I’d be the worst kind of a cheat to break 
my word to you, and I won’t. I promise.” 

“Well, good-bye, then, Ralph—you’d better hurry. And I 
know from now on you’re going to be the gentleman you 
were once—I know you were, Ralph. You can’t hide that; 
it’s deeper than skin. I must go,” she added. “Good-bye, 
Ralph.” 

Before he was able to reply she had given his hand a tiny 
squeeze, and running up the gangplank, disappeared in the 
thick shadows that hung over the sleeping ship. 

For a moment Ralph stood motionless in thought. Then 
he roused himself and swiftly darted down the wharf toward 
the lights of the cobblestoned landing. The dark night soon 
enveloped his figure and he was lost in the throngs that 
swarmed the narrow lanes. By the expression on his face, 
it was obvious that he was bent on some definite mission. 
But then in Shanghai various diversions await those who 
care to seek. 


Chapter VIII 


When Loma ran up the gangplank that spread over the 
gap of murky water between the “Blue Gull,” and the wharf, 
she did not go to her cabin as Ralph supposed. Instead, she 
uncovered a veil and coat from where she had previously hid 
them on the deck, and retraced her steps in a swift pace to 
the wharf. Ralph’s departing figure was still visible in the 
distance and Loma lost no time in following, although she 
was almost forced to run. His fast stride wound through 
a tangled web of crooked streets and it was all she could 
do to keep him in sight. Once she feared she had lost him, 
but in a moment she saw him standing before a low struc¬ 
ture on the far side of the crowded street and her alertness 
was doubly revived. A crimson Chinese lantern hung from 
the portals of the building in front of which he stood; the 
walls were almost entirely covered with Oriental characters; 
there was only one visible entrance, narrow and dingy; a 
small, bent-over Chinaman with beady eyes and pale yellow 
skin appeared at the door and shot Ralph a sharp glance; 
Ralph spoke; the Oriental replied, then they both entered. 

And that step Ralph took into the dark portals was a 
severe blow to Loma; it seemed to her as though everything 
had been for nothing, for Loma had been in the Pacific 
ports too many years of her life not to recognize a haven 
of opium fiends. And when she realized that Ralph had 
broken his promise at the initial opportunity, she knew 
that in the judging of his character she had been mistaken, 
miserably mistaken. 

She had thought his regeneration perfect—he had re¬ 
fused liquor, and he had been a drunkard—he had faithfully 
promised on their friendship to never touch opium, and he 


82 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


had broken that promise as though it were little more (or 
less in fact) than the idle word of a liar. She would have 
staked her life on his redemption, she realized as she turned 
and retreated slowly toward the water front, and he had 
failed. Loma felt weak and disheartened. If only she had 
remained at the ship she would have been saved the sickening 
revelation; she could always have thought of him as she 
hoped he would be—but it was too late for that now. All 
that remained was to forget. 

So Loma trudged wearily back to the “Blue Gull," her 
heart breaking with each step, her faith shattering with each 
second. Although she hated to admit it even to herself, 
Loma knew that Ralph had defeated her, and what a low, 
deceitful defeat it was—so mean and disgraceful that it was 
only by clenching her fists and biting her red lips that she 
could suppress the tears that were surging to burst forth. 
For her, life seemed empty. 

* * * 

Foo Yen’s hop joint, deep in the lungs of Shanghai, is a 
very active establishment on any night after seven—al¬ 
though one would seldom know the fact. Foo Yen doesn’t 
tell you (and he’d undoubtedly lie if you inquired) that he 
handles over a hundred “patients” each night, but his prof¬ 
its verify the statement. His bunks are well built, and 
rise from the asphalt floor six tiers to the bamboo roof. 
The mattresses are soft enough; in-gu-pai (Chinese whis¬ 
key) is served without extra charge to the regular custom¬ 
ers ; the ge-rags are always smooth and seldom twist; one 
finds the yen-she-gow and small brass cooking taper of the 
most highly esteemed quality; the yen-hok (cooking needle) 
is always straight and one is never forced to cook with a 
hatpin; occasionally boisterous quarrels ensue, but Foo Yen 
is a clever proprietor and diplomatically subdues his angry 
customers before tragedy results; his pills are fresh and 


The Scarlet Ladder 


83 


black, and by a process all his own, Foo Yen rolls them to 
the size and shape of a garden pea—taking it all in all, 
Shanghai has plenty of reasons for being proud of the estab¬ 
lishment. And it evidently is, for in the dimly illumina¬ 
ted chambers one may see the wealthiest merchants, the 
greatly respected soothsayers, the bankers and law-makers, 
and occasionally a lofty tong-leader of Manchu birth. And 
then, too (but not to Foo Yen’s credit), the dark building 
often, very often, harbors derelicts stranded from foreign 
vessels, wrecks of human jetsam, of both sexes, and now and 
then a newcomer seeking relief from personal strife, which 
the short lived charm of poppy juice momentarily brings. 
It is a strange, exotic haven, this establishment of Foo Yen’s, 
to say the least. And it was into the portals of this palace 
of dreams that Ralph followed the small bent-over Oriental 
—a henchman of Foo Yen’s. 

Trailing the shuffle of paper-soled sandals down a dark 
winding passageway, Ralph lost all sense of direction, and 
when finally the Chinaman parted a draping of yellow cur¬ 
tains and slid into a dimly lighted chamber, Ralph’s trail 
was a tangled one. On every side the tiers of shaded 
bunks rose to the low roof; on most the curtains were drawn 
and small scarlet glows marked the flames of cooking tapers. 

The Chinaman paused and nodded his head toward an 
open bunk on the second tier. A grin twisted his yellow 
features. 

“You likee pill, queek?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Ralph replied, an eager expression displaying his 
anxiety. “Make it quick.” 

“Allite, mister. You go bunk. Me fix.” He turned and 
shuffled to the far side of the chamber where he apparently 
vanished. 

Ralph climbed over the first tier and into the vacant com¬ 
partment. Quickly he removed his jacket and loosened his 
shirt about his neck. Then he lay prone, his head resting 


84 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


in the wooden suey-pow. From the bunk below a female 
voice cried, “Can’t yuh watch where yer steppin’ ? Like to 
put out me eye. Yuh dumb ingrate! Bet yer the guy I 
give that string of diamonds to.” 

Ralph laughed. Then an anxious frown swept over 
his face. His eyes shifted nervously. Presently the Ori¬ 
ental appeared carrying a burning taper and the necessary 
implements. Both Ralph’s frown and nervousness van¬ 
ished. He accepted the long bamboo pipe with a cynical 
smile. The Chinaman placed the tools in their correct po¬ 
sitions, then he grinned and drew the shades over the bunk. 

“You likee, eh ?” he asked. 

Ralph failed to answer, so the Chinaman slid silently out 
of the dim chamber and disappeared down the winding pas¬ 
sageway. 

For a moment Ralph stared at the slender pipe, the glow¬ 
ing taper, and the odorous black pills in motionless silence. 
Then he roused himself and with ease went about the intri¬ 
cate business of cooking over the small flame. Thick gray 
fumes rose and hung heavy in the air. With a wild gleam 
sparkling in his dark eyes he lifted the yen-hok and deliber¬ 
ately smelled the hot pill. His hand trembled and the taper 
jarred slightly, casting grotesque shadows on the drawn 
curtains. 

And then Ralph Weston did a very unusual thing. He 
riveted his eyes directly on the odorous pill and burst into a 
weird peal of laughter that echoed and re-echoed against 
the hollow wall of the exotic chamber. Following the 
laughter, mutterings in various dialects were heard in the 
different compartments, and Ralph could faintly see a blond 
head protrude from the bunk below. 

“For crime’s sake!'’ the female voice cried. “Can’t you 
think of somethin’ better to do ? I gave you those diamonds 
last night to shut up; now put on the lid an’ get some re¬ 
spect or I’ll take ’em back !’’ 


The Scarlet Ladder 


85 


But Ralph seemed not to hear. With deliberate fingers 
he crushed the warm pill and dropped it to the floor. One 
puff extinguished the taper’s flame. Then he quickly fast¬ 
ened his shirt, drew on his jacket, and sat rigid, tense, 
his eyes staring at the bamboo pipe. A smile came to his 
face. 

“I just wanted to know,” he seemed to be addressing the 
untouched pipe, “how weak or how strong I am. And I’ve 
found out! I've beaten you, old man, I’ve beaten you! 
You’re out with me; you're a has-been. I’ve seen you for 
the last time, and I didn’t touch you! Now it’s so-long, 
forever!” 

With a leap he landed on the asphalt floor. The blonde 
female stared at him with watery eyes. 

“Say, but yer fast,” she declared. “You must hold the 
record. Suppose yer gonna beat it with my diamonds— 
just like you kings. No respect. Not a damn-” 

But by that time Ralph had reached the passageway and 
disappeared at a fast pace in the darkness. The female 
sighed and returned to her pipe. 

“My diamonds,” she groaned. “My poor, poor diamonds.” 
And then she cooked another pill. 



Chapter IX 


Reaching the cobblestoned landing at the waterfront, 
Ralph walked at a swift stride down the narrow wharf and 
kept as much as possible in the secreting shadows. His 
speedy departure from the honored (?) establishment of 
Foo Yen had been rather difficult to explain to the bewil¬ 
dered Oriental henchman, considering the fact that he failed 
to produce funds to pay for his visit, and he had been 
forced to shove the demanding Chinaman from his path and 
exercise no little amount of alertness in making his depar¬ 
ture. But then, now that his regeneration had begun, Ralph 
was in no mood to allow finances to interfere, and so he 
left the opium haven by the only safe manner presenting 
itself, much to the jabbering dismay of the annoyed pro¬ 
prietor’s henchman. 

And now Ralph had reached the cargo warehouse oppo¬ 
site the docked “'Blue Gull,” so with slow, silent steps he 
gradually edged his way near the gang plank, keeping a sharp 
lookout for possible guards. On the poop-deck the watch 
paced back and forth (undoubtedly wishing he was ashore 
with the remainder of the crew). Otherwise the freighter 
was deserted. A bank of dark clouds had obliterated the 
few stars and feeble moon that were visible earlier in the 
night, and it was quite simple for Ralph to slide quickly 
up the gang plank unseen, and hurriedly make his way to 
a hatch on the port-side aft. 

Quietly, lest the watch apprehend him, he lifted the trap¬ 
door over the steep ladder and descended into the cargo 
hold. It was pitch dark, and only after a diligent search did 
he find a match. Then he wound silently between the high 
stacks of crates and located a spot where by moving several 


The Scarlet Ladder 87 

of the wooden boxes he was able to conceal himself from 
possible detection. The spot afforded a regular cavern, 
where by raising his head slightly he was able to see the 
hatchway. Fortunately it was in the rear hold; his prison 
had been in the forward, so there was little chance of a dis¬ 
covery by Captain Nelson. 

Sitting down in a crouched position, he turned his 
thoughts to Loma and for a long time dwelt on her. He 
knew that the continual worry would return to her if she 
suspected he was aboard, so he decided to keep his presence 
a secret until he knew her father’s wrath at the discovery 
of his own disappearance had subsided; then he would 
watch for an opportunity and make his appearance. In the 
meantime he would prowl the ship at night and guard her 
as best he could, for Ralph feared the time would come 
when Captain Nelson would lose his reason entirely, and he 
did not dare to imagine what would, or could possibly occur 
then. 

If he returned to his prison and chains of his own volition, 
as he had frequently considered doing in the past hour, he 
realized Loma’s fearful anxiety would return, and probably 
his penalty would be death eventually at her father’s hands. 
So Ralph decided to stay by his decision, and await what 
turn in his destiny, fate and time brought. 

He loved Loma, that he knew, and for a moment he 
vaguely wondered if she alone had been the instigator of 
his climb back up the ladder, his redemption, or had it 
also been Big Bimbo, the negro ? Perhaps they together had 
given him the initial shove, but somehow he favored Loma. 
She had scorned him at first as a worthless derelict, a thief. 
Then she had pitied him as a weakling, a drunkard and hop 
fiend. And then she had come to his aid, helped him, made 
him promise. She had been wonderful. He wondered if 
she cared? Or was it just pity or to offset her father’s in¬ 
sane treatment ? 


88 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


If Ralph could have been in Loma’s cabin on the deck 
above, he would not have asked himself such a foolish ques¬ 
tion. For while Ralph thought of her and admitted his love, 
Loma lay in her compartment, tears dimming her dark eyes 
and wetting the crimson of her flushed cheeks. Her dreams 
had been shattered; the man who had promised, the man 
for whom she would have risked her own life, had failed, 
utterly failed, so Loma thought. (And did she not have very 
good reasons to think that way?) So she gave herself up to 
the sorrow that surged within her, and each passing moment 
increased her grief over her disillusionment. 

But Ralph was far below, crouched in his cavern of crates, 
and his questions went unanswered. Then the groan of 
rusty hinges roused him, and presently the sound of many 
whispered voices came to his ears. He rose slightly and 
held an alert, rigid poise. The voices grew louder in volume 
until a square slab was lowered out of the port-side of the 
freighter and the yellow glow of a lantern emerged on the 
rim of the hold. A figure Ralph recognized as Czar’s ap¬ 
peared at the opening. The First Mate advanced several 
steps in the hold, and then made a beckoning gesture toward 
the space where the slab of the ship’s side had been lowered. 
Ralph was able to see that a small tug had been docked 
against the side of the “Blue Gull.” Then several men he 
recognized as members of the crew entered the hold with 
lanterns, and he was forced to duck his head. Their voices 
were plainly audible, though, and presently a gruff com¬ 
mand from Czar reached his ears. 

“Quiet!" the First Mate commanded. “What the ’ell do 
you lubbers wanta do? Wake up all China? I’ll smash 
the next gink that makes a noise—get that ?” 

“No need to get sore, Czar,” Ralph heard a voice reply. 
“The Captain won’t be back from the importation office for 
an hour—don’t have to worry ’bout him. And Louie just 
come down from the deck; he says that the dame is in her 


The Scarlet Ladder 


89 


cabin. If she does hear us she’ll think we’re loading the 
regular cargo—she won’t know the difference.” 

“Where we gonna stack these new crates?” a third voice 
cut in. It was vaguely familiar, and Ralph knew it to be 
one of the sailors. 

“Move away those merchandise boxes,” the First Mate 
answered, “an’ pile ’em behind. Tell the other boys to 
hurry up—and double the watch on the wharf. Ain’t gonna 
take no chances at bein’ caught. There’s others beside the 
Cap and his skirt we’ve gotta look out for, so take it soft 
and easy, and pass the word to the rest of the gang.” 

“All right, Czar,” came the answer. “I’ll start unloading 
now.” 

Ralph presently heard the scraping of many feet and he 
risked raising his head for a single glance. Czar was stand¬ 
ing to one side and talking in a low tone to a man that 
looked very familiar—it was Gus LeVene of the Samolo 
Casino, but it was not until they both moved nearer and 
seated themselves on a crate hardly three paces from his 
cavern that Ralph verified the recognition. Conflicting 
thoughts flashed through his mind but he postponed them, 
and turned his attention to the scene that unfolded itself 
before his staring eyes. 

From the tug that had been docked alongside the “Blue 
Gull” a gang plank had been lowered into the hold of the 
freighter, and as Ralph watched, a score or more of the 
ship’s crew entered the dimly illuminated hold. They 
trailed one another down the gang plank in single file; each 
carried a slender four-foot crate. When they reached 
a cleared space next to the ribs of the freighter on 
the port side, they stacked the crates in an orderly pile, and 
then returned to the tug for another load. Thus the repe¬ 
tition continued until the stack of slender crates rose in a 
dozen or more piles, ten high. Then the crew returned 
down the gang plank with small square boxes, hardly larger 


90 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


than pongee bales. These under Czar’s direction they piled 
close to the crates. But Ralph did not watch longer. Gus 
LeVene had beckoned the First Mate to his side and as 
they conversed, Ralph was able to overhear them plainly, 
for the crew subdued their noises with Czar’s warning, and 
the only sounds were the scraping of their feet on the deck 
of the hold and the stacking of the boxes. He edged his 
ear close to a small crevice and listened intently. 

“Mighty lucky I saw you at Samolo, Czar,” the Casino 
proprietor was speaking. “I’d had you in mind for this job 
since I got my commission from Kelmie at Constantinople. 
He’s running the shipment of arms bureau for Pasquale’s 
bandits. They’re going to be the big blow-up following 
Kemal’s advance in Asia Minor. You see, Czar, they 
ain’t supposed to belong to Kemal’s Army, but they’re all 
Turks an’ I’m thinking it’s just a bright idea of Kemal’s to 
shift the blame off his own shoulders when he licks the 
Greeks and advances and the wholesale murders follow. 
He’s a wise bird, and before long Britain and the Allies are 
gonna know it. Take it from me, Czar, little old Asia 
Minor, and as far in as Smyrna, is gonna see some bloody 
butchering in the next few months. I got the line on it 
from Kelmie when he told me to get my gang together an’ 
uncover this junk here at Shanghai. He was damn clever 
in keeping off suspicion by sending it here from the States 
and then sending it boat by boat to the Turkish bandit 
headquarters in Asia Minor. I give him credit—he’ll make 
a million out of the deal. Think, Czar, ten ship loads, an’ 
this is the fifth to leave already. Won’t have any trouble 
with the Captain, will we? He’s a Yankee, and might be 
tougher than the devil if he knew what was going on down 
here below. And I wouldn’t blame him.” 

“Hell, no, Gus,” came the First Mate’s reply. “He’s old 
and never comes down here—leaves it to me. The toad, 


r 


The Scarlet Ladder 


91 


how I hate his guts. Rubs it in to me whenever he can, 
but I guess I’m payin’ him back by puttin’ this over. No 
chance of your friend, Kelmie, not havin’ the gold to pay us 
with, is there ?” 

“I should say not,” Gus answered. “You don’t seem to 
realize what a big war this is gonna be. Why, the Turks 
under Kemal, the new National Army, and the bandits un¬ 
der Pasquale have been planning this affair since the Armis¬ 
tice. It's not just a row between the Turks and the Greeks 
and Armenians; it’s the old, old scrap that’s waged for cen¬ 
turies—the Christians against the Mohammedans, the Mos¬ 
lem race. And I’m telling you, Czar, England, Italy, France 
and maybe the States are gonna be dragged into it. You 
wait and see! Why, on this one little cargo of ammunition 
I’ve worked and waited for six months. Gold and big 
powers are behind Kelmie, and he’s behind me, and a 
dozen others. I’m telling you the Turks are gonna do this 
thing right this time—they’re gonna wipe the Greeks and 
the Armenians out of Asia Minor forever, Czar. You’ll 
see what Tve told you come true—just wait.” 

“Say, I didn’t savy it was as big as that, Gus,” the First 
Mate declared. “How far do you think the Turks’ll ad¬ 
vance ?” 

“They’ll chase the Greek Army out of Ushak, the 
Meander Valley, Aidin and Nasili, and then Kemal’s Na¬ 
tional Army will capture Smyrna—with Pasquale’s cut- 
throating bandits right at his heels and doing the dirty 
work. That’s who these guns and shells are for—Pas¬ 
quale’s blood-suckers, as they call ’em in Asia Minor, al¬ 
ready. And, Czar, what they won’t do to that seaport of 
Smyrna when they capture it, won’t do nothing but make the 
horrors of Belgium look like a side show. By the way, be¬ 
fore I forget,” the Samolo Casino proprietor added, “I put 
Medsel in charge at Samolo when I left on the vessel two 


92 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


days after you shoved off. I’m expectin’ a message from 
Kelmie at Constantinople telling me where the transfer ship 
will meet us. I told Medsel to forward it special from 
Samolo an’ we’ll pick it up at Port Said or Colombo—maybe 
it’ll reach us in the Canal.” 

“You were lucky, Gus,” Czar declared, “in gettin’ a fast 
ship out of Samolo after you got your orders. I was gettin’ 
worried—thought we might miss connections. But now 
that everything’s soft an’ smooth we don’t have to fear. 
The old duck is ashore signing up for a light cargo to South¬ 
ampton, now — and that makes it swell for us — right in 
our trail, eh ?” 

“Swell is the word,” came the reply. “I was worried, 
too. But say, Czar, have you made arrangements for a 
bunk and food to be fixed up down here for me? Best to 
post a guard at the hatchway, also—no telling but what the 
Cap might want to look things over.” 

“Sure, Gus. I got everything fixed. If he starts gettin’ 
nosey we’ll mutiny, and do as we want. I’d just as soon, 
anyway. But here,” the First Mate added, “we’d better 
be shovin’ off the tug an’ laying low for a spell. The boys 
have got all the crates aboard, I guess.” 

Gradually the voices grew fainter as Gus and the First 
Mate departed, and the lanterns disappeared one by one. 
With a creaking groan from the hinges, the slab on the aft- 
side of the “Blue Gull” was lifted into place, and Ralph was 
left alone with a mass of utterly befuddled thoughts that 
raced incessantly through his astonished mind. 

He had listened intently to every word of the conversa¬ 
tion between the erstwhile Samolo Casino proprietor .and 
Czar, and of all the information divulged by the pair of 
gun runners, he had come to only one single decision—Loma 
was in grave danger and it was up to him to save her. 
Should the crew mutiny under Czar’s orders and do away 


The: Scarlet Ladder 


93 


with Captain Nelson, he feared to imagine what might 
possibly occur to her. And then, too, the rebellious First 
Mate wanted her, that Ralph knew, and wanted her for 
his own personal use, and he thanked himself over and 
over for returning to the freighter where he would be on 
hand should the impending disaster occur. 

It was so vague—the conversation he had overheard— 
and yet so deliberate, that Ralph knew not what to think. 
But gradually his mind cleared and then he began to plan— 
plan for the safety of Loma, the girl he loved. And it 
was late into the night before a grim smile came to his 
countenance and Ralph allowed slumber to cease his mental 
activity. 


Chapter.X 


How long she had been sleeping, Loma was unable to 
tell, as she suddenly wakened at a loud knocking on the 
panel of her cabin door. She rose from her compartment 
hurriedly, and throwing an Oriental kimono about her 
slender shoulders, answered the abrupt summons. Her 
father stood in the companionway, a scowl creasing his 
tanned brow. His cheeks were flushed an angry scarlet and 
a mad gleam flamed his blue eyes. Pushing her into the 
cabin, he advanced and slammed the door. Then he folded 
his hands behind his back and eyed her intently. 

“Why did you help him escape?” he inquired in a harsh 
voice. “Speak, Loma—speak.” 

“Because you had no right to hold him, father,” Loma 
calmly replied. “He has not harmed you.” 

“I do as I please aboard my own ship, and you’ve dis¬ 
honored my orders for one time too many, Loma! I’m 
speaking now as Captain to subordinate—I demand the 
genuine reason!” 

“I have given my reason.” 

“You have lied!” 

“I refuse to discuss the question any longer.” 

“You’ll tell the truth, or stand here all night!” 

“All right, then, if you must know. I love him.” 

Captain Nelson did not reply. He seemed undecided. 
His fingers trembled nervously and the anger gradually 
left his cheeks. Then he motioned Loma to a chair, and 
wrinkled his brow in thought. For a long while he did 
not speak. Then a kind light came to his eyes—a light of 
sorrow. And he spoke. 

“Loma,” he said, “seeing as he’s gone I might as well 
tell you everything—I’m sorry, though, real sorry that you 


The: Scarlet Ladder 


95 


sent him away. He had guts, young Weston had—and 
he’s a comer, remember that. I guess you think your old 
daddy is crazy, the way Tve been treating him, and maybe 
I am. Once I read that insanity is hard to define. But 
when it comes to the case of young Weston I’m not—that, 
Loma, you’ll soon see. It’s a long story, so I’ll start at the 
beginning.” He seated himself in a deep rocker and crossed 
his legs. ‘T was an awful drunkard years ago, Loma—if you 
weren’t old enough to recall—and a hop fiend, too. Your 
brother Jack took me as an example and you remember 
how he died—insane from liquor and dope. Since his death 
I’ve never tasted booze and I’ve never looked at a pipe. 
It’s my fault that he died; there’s no other way of lookin’ 
at it. He followed in my footsteps, did what I did, and I 
just the same as killed him. I’ve never forgiven myself, 
Loma, never, not to this day. And I’ve always wanted to 
repent, to do something that would erase that terrible stain 
from my life. First, I thought by sendin’ you to college and 
giving you a grand education, I’d be keeping you away from 
the pit your brother fell in, but even then I knew I hadn’t 
done enough. 

“And then one day an idea came to me, a great idea to 
redeem myself in the sight of God, so I went to work on 
it. For the five years past I’ve hunted in every port in 
the Pacific for a chap that’d fallen as low as my son had 
before he died, and until I saw young Weston in the Casino 
at Samolo, I’d never found one that had all the require¬ 
ments. Must be young, a drunkard, a hop-head, and have 
guts. And, Loma, in young Weston I found ’em all. So I 
set my trap for him and got him. And-” 

“But why, father,” Loma interrupted. “Why did you 
treat him the way you did? You forced him to drink— 
you drove him lower. I can’t see any sense in your plan 
whatever it is.” 



96 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


“You will see sense in it, Loma,” the Captain replied. 
“Now don’t stop me—just listen. I’ve decided in these years 
since Jack died that there’s only one way to stop a man from 
drinking liquor.” And that’s to make him drink more—force 
him to drink it, eat it, and live with it, until he has so much 
he never wants to see booze again. You know, Loma, you 
can get tired of anything, no matter how much you loved it 
once, if you have too much of it. And that was my 
plan—make young Weston so sick of liquor he’d never want 
to see it again. And then I was gonna start him on hop, 
same as I was doing with booze. I intended to feed him so 
much opium that he’d sicken at the smell of it. My plan 
was to make a man out of him, Loma—a real man. He 
had stamina and he’d have been a real man if you hadn’t let 
him go. It would have taken months of sufferin’ on his 
part, but he’d have won out in the end. But now, you’ve 
ruined it all, Loma. He’ll lay off liquor all right for a 
while, but I’ll bet you he’s in a hop joint this minute—I’ve 
been a hop-head and I know what the craving is. You can 
judge for yourself whether or not I’m crazy, Loma, maybe 
I am, but all I was trying to do was to make a man out of 
young Weston and redeem myself in the eyes of God for 
my son’s death. I did no more to Weston than I wish I’d 
had sense enough to do for Jack. I did to him, just 
what I wish to God some man could have done to my own 
son before he left us, and now my opportunity has gone. 
My one chance to redeem is no more. I guess that’s about 
all.there is to tell, Loma—I’ve failed.” 

With a weary sigh Captain Nelson leaned back in his 
chair and stared straight ahead. His blue eyes were watery 
and an utterly exhausted expression gripped his aged fea¬ 
tures. 

“But father,” Loma had risen to her feet in anguish, a 
feeling of despair sweeping over her. “Why, oh, why didn’t 


The: Scarlet Ladder 


97 


you tell me all this before? I really thought there was 
something wrong with you, or I’d never have helped him 
escape. What was I to believe ?—you told me nothing; how 
was I to know your intentions were to reform him ? If you 
only, only had!” 

“I didn’t tell you, Loma, for the same reason that I didn’t 
tell him, or anybody,” the Captain answered. “I knew if 
I told him, he'd have told me to mind my own business, 
and my plan would have failed in a minute, so I just did, 
and said nothing. And if I'd have told you, you wouldn’t 
have understood. You’d have tried to make me treat him 
nicely, and if I had he’d never, never be a man. There was 
only one way left, and I chose that—do what I planned 
and tell nobody. But now it’s all over, he’s back where 
he can do as he pleases. And he’s lost, Loma, he’s lost.” 

“I’m sorry, father,” Loma declared after a long pause of 
silence. Tears dimmed her dark eyes and her red lips trem¬ 
bled. “I’m sorry—it was all a big mistake on my part— 
I’ve ruined everything—even his character. If I’d have 
only known—but then I probably would have interfered 
anyway—I might have helped save him. But it’s too late 
now, too late—how I hate myself for it. And why shouldn’t 
I? He’d have been a real man some day if I’d kept out 
of it and let you alone, but now he’s gone back. I don’t 
suppose you’ll ever forgive me, father, and I don’t blame 
you, but I’m sorry. Sorrier than you think." 

“That’s all right Loma,” her father declared. “You didn’t 
understand, that was all. I blundered by not telling you. 
It’s I that’s in the wrong, and now don’t you worry. You 
just forget it and everything will be all right.” 

“I’ll try, father,” came Loma’s reply. “But it’s not so easy 
to forget that you’ve probably ruined a man’s chance for 
success, and that’s just what I’ve done. And I love him, 
daddy, I love him.” 


98 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


“It’ll come out all right, Loma. You be a brave girl and 
blame it on me. You thought you were helping the man you 
loved, and did what you thought was right. Now forget 
all that nonsense about ruining him. And by the way,” it 
was obvious that the Captain was trying his utmost to switch 
the subject, “I’ve been to the importation headquarters all 
night. Signed for a big cargo at Southampton. We’ll go 
light there and then bring a heavy load back. We’re gonna 
have a great voyage—the Mediterranean is fine this time 
of year. And the only objection I’ve got is that there are 
a lot of rumors about war between the Turks and Greeks 
floatin’ around. But then, I don’t think we’ll have to worry 
—there’s always British and Yankee craft in the sea. Now 
you go back to bed, Loma,” he added, rising and starting 
for the door. “Forget all those things and everything’ll 
come out fine. Good night, dear.” 

The door closed as he trudged down the companionway. 
But his daughter did not do as he suggested. For a moment 
Loma stood silent, in meditation. Then an idea came to 
her, and before many seconds ensued it had developed to 
a plan of action. 

Dressing hurriedly in a simple outfit of street clothes 
she swiftly left her cabin and mounted to the deck. It was 
still dark, although in the East the preliminary rays of 
dawn were coming gradually over the curve of the earth. 
Without glancing to right or left she descended the gang 
plank to the wharf and quickly departed in the direction of 
the row of dimly lighted buildings that marked the water¬ 
front landing. Her mind was determined, her pace was 
fast, and she kept to the shadows as much as possible—but 
even then Loma did not avoid detection for a sinister figure 
had trailed her since her appearance on the deck. An in¬ 
dividual that was just as determined as Loma herself. And 
thus they traversed the crooked streets that edge the water¬ 
front—first Loma, and then hardly a dozen paces behind, 
the bulky figure of-. 



Chapter XI 


Czar Sunday was leaning against the wall of the poop deck 
and bidding Gus LeVene good-night as the sound of foot¬ 
steps suddenly became audible in the forward companion- 
way. He had already made arrangements for a cot to be 
placed in the rear hold for the erstwhile Casino proprietor, 
where the latter might guard the valuable ammunition and 
rifles from what seemed to them both as improbable detec¬ 
tion. As the footsteps drew nearer, Gus threw a final word 
over his shoulder and departed for the hold. But the First 
Mate, instead of retiring to the crew’s quarters as he had 
mentioned to Gus, crouched low against the wall and 
watched with alert eyes the appearance of Loma from the 
companionway. When she had descended the gang plank to 
the wharf, he cautiously followed, making sure that his 
movements went unwatched. 

Since the return of Loma from college a year previous, 
Czar had desired her, but never had the opportunity pre¬ 
sented itself. He had made love after a fashion, but she 
had rebuked him on every occasion. It was utterly im¬ 
possible for Czar to understand “why in blazes she didn’t get 
sweet on him.” In his own estimation he was perfect—with¬ 
out a flaw. He was huge in build and strong as a bull; he 
was a First Mate on her father’s own ship; “what the devil 
could be wrong?” 

But that she did not care for him, Czar knew. And she 
had emphasized it on several occasions. For instance, the 
morning she summoned the Captain’s prisoner because Czar 
had held her hand against her will and tried to embrace her, 
and the young upstart, as Czar termed him, had given him 
one of the few beatings of his life. She had done that to 


100 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


him, and there were many other offenses, even reporting 
him to her father when he flirted. 

Blit now the opportunity had presented itself. It was late 
into the night; she was alone; no one had seen him follow. 
And then the question of where her destination might be, 
occurred to him and went unanswered, which had only the 
effect of increasing his pace. Delightful visions flitted 
through his vile mind, and his burly hands grew moist under 
the clenching desires that were scorching his emotions. 

Loma had paused before a dark Oriental structure that 
Czar instantly recognized as Foo Yen’s hop joint. As he 
ducked out of sight in a doorway across the narrow street, 
a bewildered expression twisted the deep lines of his face. 
Then gradually his astonishment vanished and a snickering 
grin came to his thin lips. His small beady eyes twinkled. 

“So she’s a hop-head, is she?” he asked himself in a low 
sneering tone. “Likes to dangle at the end of a Chink’s 
bamboo, does she? Well, that makes her an’ me stand to¬ 
gether swell. From now on Miss Highbrow displays a lot 
of love for me or I put her dad wise. I guess she’ll be kinda 
nice to me, after she’s wise that I know; I guess she will 
all right. You bet!” 

As he stood motionless in the dark doorway, Czar con¬ 
sidered following Loma into the portals of the opium 
establishment that she had just entered, but with effort he 
calmed his passion and slowly retraced his steps toward the 
wharf. He realized that if he made his advance now that she 
might possibly confess to her father, which would mean his 
dismissal from the “Blue Gull” and therefore ruin his plans 
with Gus LeVene. So he decided to wait until the ammu¬ 
nition cargo was disposed of, and then face her with his 
information of her character, and thereby force her to buy 
his silence with her obvious charms. Although he hated to 
deny himself momentarily, he knew that his decision involved 



<y 


O *> 

°o“ 


The Scarlet Ladder 


101 


no risk whatever, and would finally satisfy his desire. So 
he stood by it firmly and slowly made his way back to the 
ship, his self-satisfied grin very much in evidence. 

* * * 

Without hesitation Loma entered the dim passageway and 
started for a door she expected to lead to the smoking haven. 
A pungent odor that hung soggy in the foul air nauseated 
her. Her nerves were on edge, but she was determined. 
From the shadows the bent-over figure of Foo Yen’s hench¬ 
man emerged. He blocked her advance, and his beady eyes 
stared at her from knife-like slits. Then he forced his 
gaping mouth to the semblance of a smile. 

“You likee hop?” he asked in broken English. 

“No,” Loma replied, “I’m hunting for a young man with 
dark eyes and hair, clean shaven and nice appearing. He 
came here early, tonight. Will you take me to his bunk?” 

“You want smoke fo yo’rself? You maybe likee pipe?” 

“No,” came Loma's declaration, “I told you I wanted to 
find a party that came here. I don’t care to smoke; all I 
want is to find my friend. Will you allow me to hunt for 
him ? I promise not to make any noise. May I ?” 

“You no smoke one leele pipe?” 

“No.” 

“You queek go. No can hunt; too much makee noise, 
Plenty people sleep; no can dream; you wake.” 

“But I promise not to make any noise.” 

“Nb likee hop, no can come in. Foo Yen telle me no 
smoke, no look. You go queek. Good-blye.” 

With a slight shove the Oriental propelled Loma swiftly 
toward the street portals. On the gutter curbing she pled 
for admittance once again. But the henchman did not even 
so much as reply. There had already been one guest who 
had departed without indulging that night, and the China¬ 
man was fortifying against a profitless repetition. So he 


102 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


turned and left Loma on the curbing as he shuffled back 
into the passageway. 

He had hardly disappeared when Loma’s attention was 
held on a figure that emerged from the dark doorway. It 
was the blonde woman of Ralph’s experience earlier in the 
night. Her hair hung over her shoulders in a tangled mass. 
Her flesh was pale and tinged with yellow, while her eyes 
were vague and expressionless. She advanced in a gliding 
stagger. Loma had begun her departure, but the woman’s 
shrill voice halted her. 

“Say, dearie,” she cried. “Ain't leavin’ me, are you? I 
got something wonderful to tell you. I met the grandest 
man, tonight, only I trusted him, oh, how I trusted him, 
and he stole me diamonds.” 

Loma attempted to pass on, but the blonde caught up with 
her and halted her progress by coiling an arm over her 
shoulder and neck. She laughed hideously, and thick tears 
wet her blurred eyes. Loma was at a loss to determine just 
what to do, or rather, how to do it. 

“Sweetest little fellow I ever met,” the woman declared 
with broad gestures and much gusto. “He was a king, 
dearie—too bad. Them kings never got respect. He nearly 
stepped in me eye. I forgave him though. I’m one of them 
good-hearted sort—inherit it from the virgin Mabel.” 

But by this time Loma had thrown the blonde from her, 
and was departing down the narrow lane at a swift stride. 
The scene had sickened her, she felt weak and faint. Far 
behind she could hear the woman’s rasping voice. 

“Don't leave me!” it screeched. “Stick by your old pal, 
she loves yuh, dearie, an’ she’ll give you the nicest string of 
diamonds ye ever did see!” 

A chill came over Loma and she quickened her pace. In 
her mind she visioned Ralph smoking in a dive with such 
women, but somehow the thought failed to ring true. He 


The Scarlet Ladder 


103 


did not seem to fit in such a place, but yet she had seen 
him enter; what else could she believe? 

But now he was gone—he had broken his promise, he had 
failed, and now he was gone. (She thought so highly of 
him, he seemed so kind and nice, and now what a disgraceful 
disappointment he had proven. It was with a heart that 
hung heavy within her that Loma boarded the “Blue Gull” 
and silently passed down the companionway to her cabin. 
And long after she had undressed and climbed in her com¬ 
partment, her sobs were faintly audible, for Loma Nelson, 
a daughter of the sea, had met her first great disillusion¬ 
ment. 


Chapter XII 


With Captain Nelson on the forward deck and First Mate 
Czar at the wheel, the freighter “Blue Gull'’ wound through 
the crowded harbor with the morning tide and cut its way 
into the arrogant blue of the Pacific. Loma remained in her 
cabin and did not make her appearance on deck until Shang¬ 
hai and the China coast-line had vanished in the far distance. 
Far below in the rear hold, Ralph amused himself by watch¬ 
ing Gus LeVene count and recount, with frequent errors, the 
crates of rifles. and boxes of ammunition. And thus did 
serenity lay over the “Blue Gull” as she nosed toward her 
far-ofif destination. But that was just the beginning. 

On the morning of the third day of the voyage the chief 
steward and his Chinese cooks reported that ten cartons of 
soda crackers, four cans of pressed beef, five boxes of the 
Captain’s private stock of cookies, and several miscellaneous 
portions of cooked vegetables, had disappeared under mys¬ 
terious circumstances from the provision pantry. They also 
added, that someone had entered the galley late in the night 
and cooked themselves a very large and expensive meal, 
choosing the best of the stock. 

Captain Nelson lined up the crew and gave them a lecture 
on the severe penalty of stealing while at sea. Then he 
ordered his First Mate to investigate, and dismissed the 
matter as petty. But on the fifth night of the voyage, he was 
awakened and informed that seaman Farell had risen from 
his bunk, the first one in the crew’s quarters, and discovered 
his blankets gone, his knife missing from its sheath, and 
his slicker and rain hat absent from their usual hook. 

Baffled, Captain Nelson ordered a thorough search for a 
possible stowaway, but an hour later Czar reported that the 


The: Scarle;t Ladder 


105 


entire ship had been diligently searched and no sign of an un¬ 
listed passenger uncovered. So the Captain again dismissed 
the matter and the freighter resumed its normal placidity 
once more. 

Not again did the strange thefts occur until the “Blue 
Gull” had rounded Singapore and entered the waters of the 
Indian Ocean. Then seaman Gilson reported the loss of his 
woolen rough-weather sweater from where he had laid it on 
the deck while doing night watch. For the second time the 
ship was searched for a stowaway—but to no avail. So Cap¬ 
tain Nelson decided that the thief was a member of the crew, 
and he began a systematic elimination. And thus did the 
mysterious problem rest. 

It never occurred to the Captain or his First Mate, or in 
fact to anyone, that both seamen Farell and Gilson had as¬ 
sisted on one occasion in administering a severe beating to a 
certain individual—Ralph Weston, by name. It never en¬ 
tered their minds, and it is quite doubtful that they would , 
have connected him with the thefts even if it had. But of 
course the real culprit was no other than Ralph, himself. 
He had managed his night exploits only after exercising a 
vast quantity of care and ability, both physical and mental, 
which had naturally involved a great risk to his safety. But 
gradually, bit by bit, he satisfied both his desire for neces¬ 
sities and his amusement for revenge. 

Then came an afternoon when the freighter neared Ceylon 
and Ralph crouched low behind his barrier of crates, and 
listened alertly to the conversation between Gus and the 
First Mate, who had just descended the hatchway from the 
deck. Their voices were loud and he was able to hear each 
word plainly. 

“We’re not gonna dock till we reach Suez,” Czar was 
speaking. “The old lummox gave me orders this mornin’ to 
put straight for the Red Sea and the Canal. Decided not to 


106 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


touch Colombo at all. So you'll have to pick up your mes¬ 
sage from Kelmie there.” 

“That’ll be all right, Czar,” came Gus’ reply. “I gave 
my man at Samolo full dope and he’ll get it to us, don’t fear. 
But what’s botherin’ me is all the mystery going on around 
here. I’ve heard funny noises once or twice in the night, 
and they’re not to my fancy. You don’t think we’ve got a 
spy in the crew, do you ?” 

“Hell, no!” the First Mate exploded. “Didn’t I tell yuh I 
got me own pals aboard, that I picked every one of ’em. 
That gang’ll do what I say. An’ besides we're payin’ ’em 
plenty extra for this deal—why shouldn’t they? What I 
think about them noises an’ stealings that's been goin’ on 
since we left Shanghai, is that one of the boys in the crew 
is hitting the old needle purty strong, and does the tricks 
while he’s doped. That’s my idea of it. I told the old 
lubber an' he agrees with me. We’ll grab the bird yet—just 
wait.” 

“I never thought of that angle,” Gus declared. “I guess 
you’re right. And now,” he added, “let’s drag out that box 
of revolvers and load ’em. No telling but what we’ll have to 
hand ’em out to the crew in case of trouble—better be 
prepared.” 

“I wuz thinkin’ about that this mornin’,” declared the 
First Mate. “Not a bad idear. We’ll hide ’em over there 
under that wad of canvas, so as they’ll be handy if we need 
’em, but I doubt it. Everything’s going smooth, far as I 
can see.” 

“Best to be ready, old man,” Gus answered. “This is a 
big deal we’re pulling and we don’t want any hitches.” 

Exercising utmost caution, Ralph lifted his head above the 
barrier of crates and watched with eager interest the drag¬ 
ging of a single box from the huge stack. Gus immediately 
pried off the wooden lid with a short crow-bar and the First 
Mate assisted him in removing a score or more glistening 


The Scarlet Ladder 


107 


revolvers and boxes of cartridges from the padded interior. 
Ralph smiled when he noticed the opened crate was marked 
with Chinese characters and stenciled in scribbled lettering 
as containing slop merchandise. 

But he did not smile for long, his interest was too sharply 
on edge. Both Gus and Czar were loading the revolvers, 
one by one. When the entire lot had been made ready for 
instant use they piled them under the aforementioned wad 
of canvas, and then retreated toward the hatchway. Ralph 
was able to hear faintly their last words as they neared the 
steep ladder. 

“No use givin’ ’em out to the boys, now,” the First Mate 
was saying. “Might cause suspicion from the Cap, or a 
scrap among themselves. Keep ’em hid ’til we need ’em, 
that’s my scheme.” 

“You’re right,” Ralph heard Gus reply, “but how about 
me going on deck in broad daylight ?” 

“Aw, that’s all right,” came the answer. “We’ll sneak to 
the crew’s quarters and lay low for a bit. Cap won’t see 
us, he’ll be forward this time o’ day. And his skirt ain’t 
hardly been out of her cabin since we left Shanghai. Don’t 
know what’s ailin’ her, but I’ve a good idea. Come on, 
Gus,” he added, “follow me.” 

Ralph heard the scraping of their feet on the hatchway 
as they ascended, and then followed the thud that marked 
the lowering of the trap-door. Raising himself on top of 
the nearest crate, he quickly scampered over the broad 
barrier and down to the deck of the hold. From the jar of 
water that stood by Gus’ improvised bed on a narrow fold¬ 
ing cot, he poured himself a large drink. Then he crossed to 
where the loaded revolvers had been concealed and selected 
one. From the lid of the hatchway a sound reached his ears. 
With lightning rapidity he climbed to his cavern behind the 
crates just in time to miss being seen by the recently departed 
pair. From a shadowed crevice he watched their advance. 


108 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


“Holy mackerel!” Gus exclaimed as they neared the cot, 
“but that was a narrow escape. Thought you said that 
dame was keeping to her cabin ?” 

“I did,” Czar declared, seating himself on a nearby box. 
“She ain’t been down in this end o’ the ship since we put off 
from China. Just strolling around casual, I guess.” 

“Don’t suspicion us, does she?” Gus inquired. 

“No, not a bit. I’ve had her watched. And, besides, she’s 
got a mighty good reason to keep in her cabin,” he chuckled 
slyly; “a dandy reason.” 

“You’re not going to keep secrets from your pal, are you ?” 
Gus demanded, a twinkle in his jet eyes. 

“I’ll tell you, Gus—when we get near our dumpin’ place. 
You might wanta cut me out if I gave you the dope now. 
You’re a handy sort with the women, yourself, and you 
might go me one better.” 

“Well, play it alone, Czar. But don’t go and let a bit of 
fun interfere with our work; be careful. She’s the Cap’s 
daughter, remember.” 

“I’ll wait, don’t fear. Too much coin in this to do any¬ 
thin’ else. An’ there’s a sayin’ that says the riper the fruit, 
the sweeter the eatin’. Well,” he added, “I’ll be goin’ now, 
Gus. You lay low down here an’ leave the deck and crew 
to me. So long.” 

For a long while after Czar left, Ralph burned with 
bitter resentment over the vile insinuations he had been 
forced to hear. Interference was out of the question, he 
realized, and would only jeopardize his possibilities of 
communicating with Loma and safeguarding her from the 
disaster that was impending. So he gradually calmed him¬ 
self and shifted his thoughts to the plans that lurked in his 
mind. They were not definite, to be sure, but they were 
plans—plans of action—and Ralph was determined that no 
harm should befall the girl he loved, if it was in his power 
to ward it off. And Ralph intended to exercise every ounce 
of his ability to give him that power. 


Chapter XIII 


Since the “Blue Gull” had glided out of Shanghai harbor, 
nearly three weeks past, Loma had remained in her cabin 
almost constantly. Her usual habit of promenading the deck 
had been neglected. Occasionally she had long conversations 
with her father, but otherwise she remained exclusively 
alone. Her disappointment over Ralph’s obvious failure had 
dealt her a severe blow, and never did she think of what 
might have been, had she not interfered with her father’s 
plan of redemption, but what she grew remorseful and 
utterly discouraged with life as it lay before her. Nothing 
seemed to hold charm or fancy. Everything, even her father, 
appeared morbid, dull, and repulsive. Life was absolutely 
empty. And these were naturally not pleasant sensations 
for Loma to experience. She hated to feel the way she did 
—but yet, how could she overcome them? 

For an hour one hot morning the freighter paused at a 
wharf on the Port of Suez before going through the famous 
Suez Canal, and Loma took a brief walk along the water¬ 
front as enjoyable recreation from the monotony life on 
board the ship had grown to be. She took little notice of 
Czar as he passed her on the gang plank, a stranger at his 
side, although at the time she thought it unusual that he 
would permit visitors aboard, especially when conditions in 
Asia Minor were so precarious. But then the First Mate 
was in the habit of doing about what he pleased, so she 
dismissed the trifle and turned her thoughts to more press- 
ing subjects. * * * 

Two weeks previous, the New Turkish National Army, 
under their conquering hero, Mustafa Kemal Pasha, had 
begun a triumphant advance against the faltering Greek 


110 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


Army, and already the village of Ushak was in flames, 
while rumors told of evacuation by the Greek forces from 
the Meander Valley. The latter army was reported as re¬ 
treating in utter disregard of discipline or command, and 
burning the villages which lay in their scarlet wake. The 
advance of the Turks to the seaport of Smyrna was ex¬ 
pected within a week. Already the city was besieged with 
the wounded from the Greek forces and fleeing refugees 
totaling four hundred thousand. The towns of Aidin and 
Nasilin, on the Aidin Railway, were directly in the path of 
the unhalted Turkish advance and Kemal’s forces were 
expected to enter before the following dusk. The last 
stronghold of the Greeks at Magnesia had already fallen 
and the city in flames was a grim prediction of the horrible 
fate that awaited Smyrna. The Casabar Railway had been 
crippled beyond repair, while in the seaport itself, the 
varied population of Greeks, Turks, Armenians and Italians 
were in riot, unable to secure accommodations to deliver 
them from the plight of fire, famine and horror that was 
bound to ensue. The conquering advance of Kemal’s Army 
was reported as being in perfect control and order, and the 
blame for the rioting, wholesale murders and plundering 
was laid at the feet of Pasquale’s tribe of Turkish bandits 
who followed at the heels of Kemal’s advance and slaugh¬ 
tered with mad abandon all Greeks, Armenians and helpless 
non-combatants that chanced to fall in their riotous fangs. 
Apparently Gus LeVene had not been far from correct in 
his prediction of the coming war, although at the time his 
co-operator, Czar Sunday, had thought it rash exaggeration. 
But now as the “Blue Gull” paused at Suez, the concrete 
facts verified almost in detail his wildest assertion, and there 
ensued naturally a scene of “I told you so.” Gus was that 
sort of an individual. 


The Scarlet Ladder 


111 


After what had possibly been an hour, Ralph felt the 
quivering of the freighter and then the rolling sway, and 
he knew that presently the passage through the Canal would 
be effected. The frequent (never less than once a day) 
conversations between the First Mate and the Samolo Casino 
proprietor had kept Ralph familiar with the progress of 
the ‘‘Blue Gull,” and also informed him of many private 
details that were to become of priceless value in the near 
future. For instance the scene that occurred soon after the 
freighter departed from Suez and entered the Canal. 

In the past several days Ralph had kept almost exclusively 
to his cavern among the crates, and although it was cramped 
and uncomfortable, it afforded him greater safety than roam¬ 
ing the deck under a continual risk. Occasionally he would 
drink a portion of Gus’ water or snatch a bite of food that 
the gun-runner had failed to consume from a recent meal— 
but otherwise he held his shadowed position almost con¬ 
stantly. A definite plan had blossomed in his mind to 
forestay danger from Loma, should Czar and his crew mu¬ 
tiny, and he determined, even at the risk of his own life no 
harm should befall her, or, furthermore (although he knew 
not why), her father. 

And now as he peered from the watch-hole crevice into 
the dim light that circled Gus’ cot he perfected his plan of 
action to almost minute detail. A moment previous Czar 
had descended from the hatchway, followed by a tall, slender 
and dark complexioned man, whom Ralph recognized as a 
Turk, although the crimson fez atop his oily, black hair was 
replaced by an Occidental hat. The three of them stood in 
a triangle under a cabin lantern that cast an aureole of 
yellow to the deck of the hold, and Ralph, behind his barrier, 
was able to overhear every word. With broad gestures, 
the Turk spoke perfect English, and was apparently very 
excited. 

“My friends,” he was saying, “the time has come! No 


112 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


longer shall the Mohammedans bend under the Greek knife. 
Turkey shall rule Asia Minor and the Straits—England, 
France and Italy must bend before our demands. And then, 
my friends, America will heed our power. We, under the 
great Kemal, shall conquer the world. Once again shall 
Constantinople be the capital of the universe! And I as 
personal representative for Pasquale’s incomparable ban¬ 
dits offer you magnificent importers our heartiest congrat¬ 
ulations for your splendid success. Kemal’s great Army 
needs no arms or ammunition to further their brilliant 
advance, but, alas, Pasquale’s forces are in dire need of 
both. We are fighting under separate leadership and fol¬ 
lowing Kemal, but we are Turks. And today it is Turk 
and Turk, arm in arm, regardless. We have been unsuccess¬ 
ful in recovering the Greek arms, as we expected, and 
therefore your arrival has been anxiously awaited. Your 
co-operation has been magnificent to say the least, and in 
gold Pasquale shall reward you.” 

“Say, Chief,” the First Mate cut in, “when do we get this 
said coin ? Compliments is all right, but it's cash I’m after.” 

“When we are less than twelve miles from Smyrna,” the 
Turk replied, “a small craft will meet us. It will be dawn, 
and if you can arrange to have the ‘Blue Gull’ become dis¬ 
abled at that moment, a transfer will be made then and there. 
Is it possible?” 

“Sure,” answered Czar, “anything is possible when I’m 
First Mate. But what I wanta know is where and when 
do we get the coin?” 

“Right at that moment, niy friend,” came the reply. 
“Pasquale has made arrangements for a Sub- Chief to meet 
us with your share of the gold. You need not fear, Pasquale 
may be a bandit scorned throughout all Asia Minor, but he 
is a gentleman, and just as honorable as Kemal, himself. 
Place faith in my words.” 

“Oh, you don’t need to worry, Czar,” vowed Gus. “I’ve 
got Kelmie’s word from Constantinople through my pal at 
Samolo, that these birds are good—good for what they say. 
I’ll vouch for that, myself. But now, are you positive you 


The Scarlet Ladder 


113 


can stop this ship when the transfer boat arrives without 
the Cap or his dame knowing about it? It looks risky to 
me.” 

“Hell, yes!” the First Mate asserted. “I’ll bungle the old 
wreck, and the Cap, too, if he tries to monkey. And the 
girl is not worth botherin’ ’bout. I’ve got her under my 
thumb whenever I say the word. You remember what I 
told yuh when we left Shanghai—well, Gus I don’t lie. 
Not about my women, anyway.” 

“Well, well,” the Turk chuckled a smirking peal, “so my 
good friend includes among his many visible possessions a 
fair female. Is she the charming creature I passed on the 
gang plank? If so, you are fortunate—she is most delightful 
to the eye.” 

“That’s her,” Gus declared, “the Captain’s pride. But 
Czar ain’t got her yet; he’s just thinking about what’s to 
come.” 

“Don’t you worry,” the First Mate grinned, “she’s mine 
for the askin’, an’ soon as we unload this high powered 
cargo, I’m gonna ask. And also I’m gonna get!” 

“Leave it to Czar with the women,” Gus remarked; “be 
they innocent or naughty he gets ’em, and the innocent 
first.” 

“Well, I’ll be goin’,” the First Mate declared, “the old 
lubber is looking for me I guess. Hell o’ a lot of information 
he’ll get from the crew, but it looks kinda bad. So-long, 
Chief, I’ll have you a berth fixed up down here for the night 
with Gus. See you both in the mornin’.” 

The triangle dispersed with the ascending of Czar to the 
deck, and Ralph relaxed and paid little attention to the 
remaining pair. The passionate wrath that burned within 
him gradually calmed and he forced the First Mate’s in¬ 
sinuations from his mind; but not until a battle with his 
desire to interfere had been fought and conquered. The vile 
discussion concerning Loma had wrought upon his emotions 
until he could hardly hold himself in control; but he suc¬ 
ceeded, for he realized that as yet the time for interference 
had not arrived. 


Chapter XIV 


i 


Although he failed to possess a watch, Ralph guessed the 
hour as three. The incessant snores of the Turk in a cot 
beside Gus awakened him, which was quite fortunate, for 
he had intended to rise early. It was a matter of twenty 
minutes on his tiptoes before he cautiously reached the deck, 
unheard and unseen. It was warm and dark outside; not a 
single star illuminated the sky. He took a deep breath of 
the air, which was refreshing after the stuffy atmosphere 
of the hold, and silently crawled toward the forward cabins. 
A single light burned on the poop deck and silhouetted the 
watch as he paced back and forth. Otherwise the ‘‘Blue 
Gull” lay in total darkness. 

Reaching a position where the walls of the cabins pro¬ 
truded on the deck and left a narrow runway cloaked in 
heavy shadows, Ralph crawled directly toward a closed and 
shaded port hole that was apparently his goal. By standing 
upright his head was level with the circular opening, and he 
peered at the oval lid a moment in critical examination. 
Unbuttoning his jacket and rolling up a rough-weather 
sweater (the property of seaman Gilson) Ralph displayed 
a pair of ugly revolvers (from the private stock of Czar 
and Gus, Inc.), protruding from a thick mahogany-colored 
belt (the one time knife support of seaman Farell). 

Drawing the seaman's knife and one of the revolvers, 
he carefully inserted the former in the oval rim of the port 
hole and began a series of systematic pryings. Ten minutes 
afterwards the circular lid opened under a cautious shove, 
and Ralph was able to peer into the darkness of Loma’s 
cabin. 

He was surprised to find her sleeping compartment so 
near; the soft sighs of her breathing came from almost 


The Scarlet Ladder 


115 


directly beneath the opened port hole. For a brief period this 
seemed to disturb his calculations, for he hesitated in medita¬ 
tion and seemed undecided on how to proceed. Then a 
thought evidently came to him for he drew a yard or more 
of burlap cord from a side pocket. Tied to one end of the 
string was a slip of paper; on the other he fastened the 
revolver. Then inch by inch, he lowered the revolver into 
the dark interior of the cabin, until it pulled no longer and 
he knew that the weapon rested on the soft covers of Loma’s 
berth. 

With a toss he dropped the end of the cord into the 
cabin, hurriedly closing the port hole lid, and beat a swift 
but silent retreat down the dark deck to the hatchway. From 
out of the shadows a bulky figure emerged, lantern in hand, 
and drew near. Ralph crouched flat against a mound of 
sail canvas and barely avoided being brushed by the First 
Mate as that worthy passed close by him. 

At the hatchway that led to the aft hold, Czar lifted the 
trap-door and swiftly descended. For a second Ralph was 
undecided, then exercising all the caution he was able to 
muster, he slowly followed, step by step. It was very 
fortunate that several large crates of genuine cargo were 
stacked nearby the steep ladder, otherwise Ralph would have 
surely been apprehended. A minute later when he risked 
raising his head for a single glance, he found Czar talking 
to both the Turk and Gus, who were quickly dressing. 
The brass lantern hung on a nearby nail and illuminated 
them clearly. Their voices were faint, for they were farther 
away than usual from his cavern. Czar was speaking in an 
excited voice. 

“I don’t know what in hell to make of it,” he declared. 
“Just coinin’ from the watch when first I set my eyes on it. 
I thought maybe it was the end of the world, or somethin.' 
You’re familiar around these parts, Chief, whata yuh make o’ 
it ?” 


116 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


“Why, my friends,” the Turk replied, “it’s 'Smyrna, 
Smyrna burning. Kemal’s Army has already entered the 
seaport. We can’t be more than fifteen miles away right this 
minute. How light is it outside? Nearly dawn?” 

“Gettin’ light in the Hast,” the First Mate answered. “I’ve 
got a double watch on the forward deck with private orders. 
The old lummox an’ his kid are sleepin’ like logs; we won’t 
have any trouble from them. Suppose we’ll meet the transfer 
ship in about half an hour, won’t we, Chief?” 

“Yes, according to orders. But perhaps you’d better go 
on deck and bring down about a score of your crew to make 
the exchange; we won’t want to spend much time when the 
boat does arrive. Mr. LeVene, yourself and I will do the 
directing. Is that arrangement satisfactory, Mr. Sunday?” 

“Keep a close watch, Czar,” Gus cut in, “and the minute 
she’s sighted give us the word, then you and the crew come 
below.” - ' . 

“Okeli,” came the reply. “Leave it to me, men. I’ll go 
through with this deal or know the reason why!” 

The First Mate turned and headed for the hatchway. 
Ralph ducked down in the shadows of the crates, and lay 
flat on his stomach. Without glancing to right or left, Czar 
quickly mounted the steep ladder and slammed the trap-door 
after him. Ralph breathed easier; he could have touched'the 
seaman as he passed. 

By moving a merchandise crate several inches, he was 
able to fortify his position against everything but direct 
search. This he did very slowly and very quietly. When he 
glanced again at the aureole of yellow light, the Turk and Gus 
had finished their dressing and were examining the slab that 
had been lowered out of the freighter’s side at Shanghai to 
receive the cargo of rifles and ammunition. Then a sound 
became audible from above and Ralph ducked in the 
shadows. 


The Scarlet Ladder 


117 


Headed by the First Mate, the greater share of the hetero¬ 
geneous crew swiftly descended to the deck of the hold. 
They walked very quietly, and Czar warned them continually 
about noise. When they had reached the circle of light, he 
lined them in single file, and with the assistance of the Turk 
and Gus, uncovered the assortment of loaded revolvers from 
the wad of canvas and passed them out along the row, one 
to each seaman. 

"She’s pullin’ up here to the aft,” Ralph heard the First 
Mate declare. "I’ve got a man givin’ her the signals; no 
need to worry, everything’s goin’ swell.” 

Then from his shaded position he watched the slab low¬ 
ered to the tune of rusty hinges, and was able to distinguish 
the shape of a small tug resting in the calm waters. The 
rolling sway of the "Blue Gull” had ceased, and Ralph knew 
that Czar’s plans to momentarily halt progress had succeeded. 
For a moment he wondered about the safety of Loma and 
her father, but the necessity of alertness compelled him to 
shift his thoughts to the scene at the ribs of the hold. 

A wide gang plank had been lowered between the freigh¬ 
ter and the smaller boat and the crew were swiftly transport¬ 
ing the crates and boxes across the gap of blue. Czar was 
aboard the tug with Gus and the Turk—to collect pay¬ 
ment, so Ralph imagined. Presently the First Mate returned 
with Gus at his side; the Turk was evidently intending to 
land with the cargo. They paused at the rim of the hold 
and gave various commands to speed up the transfer. Then 
from the hatchway the sound as of someone descending 
quickly reached Ralph’s ears, and he was startled to see the 

partly clad figure of Captain Nelson dash toward the First 
Mate. 

"Stop!” the aged officer cried. "I, as Captain of this 
ship, command you to call a halt!” 

"Captain, hell!” the First Mate snarled, gripping the aged 


118 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


seaman by the front of his pea-jacket. “If anybody’s Captain 
on this hunk o' cheese, it’s me ! Get that ?” 

“Mutiny, is it?” the Captain cried. “Then I fight!” 

Jerking Czar’s hand from his coat, he reached for his hip 
and lunged to one side. But before he was able to draw his 
weapon, Gus and two of the crew grappled with him and 
flung his frail figure to the deck of the hold. The First 
Mate laughed. 

“Tie him tight, men,” he ordered. “Little lubbers like him 
might get dangerous.” 

Never in his life had Ralph wanted to fight as he did then. 
His revolver was gripped in a moist hand and beads of per¬ 
spiration formed on his brow. The abrupt appearance of 
Captain Nelson had shattered his already developed plans, 
and he was at a loss at how to interfere. Then a brilliant 
thought came to him. It meant a risk, a great risk, but 
Ralph threw precaution to the winds. 

Edging his way, step by step, he circled the rim of light 
and gained a position where he would be able to dash for the 
hatchway when the appropriate moment for his intervention 
arrived. He had no sooner reached this momentary destina¬ 
tion, when a member of the crew quickly descended the 
hatchway and ran toward the First Mate, who with Gus at 
his elbow, directed the tying of Captain Nelson. The latter 
lay prone with three seamen bending over him. His wrists 
were handcuffed with strong cord, and a soiled bandana 
handkerchief served as a gag. With a taunting remark, 
Czar relieved him of his revolver and tucked it away in his 
own belt. And then from the hatchway (which had been 
left open by the hurried descent) the seaman appeared on 
the run. Ralph was not only able to hear every word of the 
conversation that ensued, but the scene lay directly in front 
of his alert eyes, and he profited no little by the view. 

“She’s headed right for us,” the seaman declared in an 


The Scarlet Ladder 


119 


excited voice. ‘“Motor launch, I’d call her. Grover got the 
signals on the poop. She’s calling for the Captain.” 

For a moment the First Mate did not reply. Then he 
picked up the Captain’s hat from where it had fallen in the 
struggle, and set it jauntily on his own head. 

“In that case I guess I’m Captain on this raft,” he snick¬ 
ered. Then he faced Gus. “You keep ’em workin’,” he 
ordered, “and when yer loaded shove off. I’ll tend to the 
deck.” 

“Been going swift so far,” Gus declared. “Should be done 
in about three or four minutes. If you need help, remember 
the boys have got those loaded gats, and I’m thinking they’d 
love to use ’em.” 

“I’ll give the word if they’s any row,” the First Mate 
answered. Then he turned on his heels and started for the 
hatchway. The seaman who had come from the deck 
followed. They passed within two feet of Ralph without 
noticing him. He eyed their ascension intently, then threw 
a backward glance over his shoulder at the nearby rim of 
light, and followed. 

Reaching the deck at the heels of the pair, he sought con¬ 
cealment and found it behind a lay of sail canvas near the 
main mast. Dawn had streaked the sky a silver gray and in 
the East the preliminary rays of morning sun gave the effect 
a shade of gilt. It was quick work on the part of Ralph to 
discover so perfect a hiding place. Pulling back a fold of 
the sail he was able to watch the swift approach of a motor 
launch on the port side. It was jammed with people, and on 
a small cabin a seaman signaled to the “Blue Gull” with 
colored flags. 

Ralph turned his attention to the larboard and was star¬ 
tled to behold the horizon a scarlet red in color. The Turk 
had mentioned the burning of Smyrna, he recalled, and the 
advance of Kemal’s Army into the seaport. It seemed to 


120 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


Ralph, as he recalled his Sunday School lessons in the far, 
far past, that Smyrna was a vast city, an outlet for the 
commerce of Asia Minor. He vaguely speculated as to the 
amount of suffering, rioting, and starving, the burning of 
such a metropolis would cause. Then his gaze lowered to 
the water for a moment and the loading of the tug held him. 


Chapter XV 


Loma sat up in her berth abruptly. Something, some com¬ 
motion on the deck had awakened her, she knew not what. 
A column of gray light streamed in from the port hole above 
her head and she realized that it verged on morning. Quickly 
jumping from the compartment she started for her clothes 
closet, when an object on the berth caused her to stop dead 
in her tracks. 

It was a revolver, joined by a length of cord to a slip of 
writing paper. Under Loma’s examination, scribbled hand¬ 
writing (evidently done with burnt matches) read: 

“Keep this with you and use it— 
danger ahead—a friend.” 

Without a moment of hesitation, Loma hurried into her 
clothes, threw a cloak about her shoulders, tucked the re¬ 
volver in her waist, and then started for her father’s cabin 
across the companion way. Something jabbed her in the back 
as she stepped to her father’s door, and she turned to face 
a member of the crew, gun in hand. His eyes held a cold 
gleam and his jaw hung in a sneering droop. 

“Stick ’em up!” he demanded, “and hold ’em there! Yer 
under arrest. Captain Czar Sunday’s order.” 

Loma obediently complied, and with features under per¬ 
fect control stared into the mean face. She realized the 
futility of rebellion, and decided to wait her opportunity. 

“Go on up the companionway to the edge o’ the deck,” 
the seaman ordered, “and not a bum move or I’ll plug yuh!” 

Loma walked the short distance without answering. A 
strange sight met her eyes. The First Mate, with her 
father’s uniform cap on his head, stood at the larboard rail¬ 
ing with several members of the crew circling him. A gang- 


122 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


plank was being lowered to the deck of a motor launch 
crowded to the railings with men in civilian clothes. On a 
small cabin a man in uniform (United States Navy, Loma 
recognized) was speaking through a megaphone to Czar. 
She listened intently to his words. 

“Forced to demand this service in the name of the United 
States Government/’ he declared. “Smyrna is in flames and 
our citizens are in danger of the rioting that’s going on. 
Take these gentlemen aboard and proceed to Constantinople. 
We would continue but are overcrowded and fear capsiza- 
tion. United States destroyer 329 expected at any hour, but 
conditions ashore became too precarious for further delay.” 

The officer with the megaphone turned and pointed to a 
tall gray haired man that stood near the railing of the launch. 

“United States Senator Grover J. Weston is in charge,” he 
called to Czar. “This is the Government Investigation Bu¬ 
reau, just returned from Russia. If you meet destroyer 329 
signal her commanding officer and make a transfer. In the 
meantime make the best speed possible. Senator Weston 
will inform you, Captain, of anything I’ve overlooked.” 

A scowl creased the First Mate’s brow, but he directed the 
ascension of the refugees with a forced smile, and Loma 
shuddered at the thought of what might follow. The sea¬ 
man behind, pressed his revolver against her back and 
warned her in an undertone to maintain her silence. She 
complied, although a desire to intervene almost overcame 
her. What had happened to her father, she wondered? 
Possibly killed, but she hardly imagined the First Mate 
would go so far as that. Then she turned her mind to the 
tall, gray-haired man that led the column up the gang plank. 
He was shaking Czar’s hand now and talking in a low voice 
which Loma was unable to overhear. The transfer was 
quickly executed and not less than a score of American 
civilians presently lined the larboard deck of the “Blue 


The: Scarlet Ladder 


123 


Gull.” With a shrill screech from the motor, the uniformed 
officer waved a farewell, and the launch headed back for 
the scarlet horizon that marked the shore. 

“Senator Weston,” the officer had called the tall man, 
Loma recalled. That had been Ralph’s name, but the 
thought that he could possibly be his father never entered her 
mind. And then a thud sounded behind her back and she 
risked turning about. Her dark eyes bulged in their fringed 
sockets, and she stared unbelieving. 

The seaman lay in a heap on the floor of the companion- 
way, blood oozing from a cut on his scalp. Ralph stood over 
him, a revolver gripped in his hand, a broad smile curving 
his lips. 

“Your father is all right Loma,” he said, “but hurry— 
follow me.” 

Her mind revolving in befuddling circles, Loma managed 
to follow, but that was all. To reply was out of the question. 
Ralph—her Ralph ? When ? How ? Where ? And a 
myriad other unanswerable problems flashed across her 
mind. They had reached the aft-end of the companionway 
when Ralph halted. He bent down on his knees and 
motioned her to do likewise. His gaze leveled on the 
water and Loma allowed hers to follow. 

A tug, its deck stacked high with crates, paused nearby 
the “Blue Gull.” Gus LeVene and the Turk stood side by 
side near the helm and watched the swift departure of the 
motor-launch, which had made the transfer of the refugees 
on the opposite side of the freighter, and out of view. 
Ralph did not speak, and so great was Loma’s befuddle- 
ment, that she was unable to. Once he patted her hand 
and smiled, and she returned the glance, but almost instantly 
he returned his eyes to the tug and assumed a tense, rigid 
pose. 

Presently the motor launch disappeared, and with a chug 


124 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


from its engine, the tug began to follow. When it was pos¬ 
sibly thirty yards from the “Blue Gull,” Ralph drew his 
revolver and aimed at the stack of crates on the deck. He 
pulled the trigger five times, and with the fifth shot a 
mighty roar sounded on the tug and blew the light craft 
into a dozen pieces, as crate after crate of ammunition and 
high-powered explosives were ignited. When the dense 
smoke cleared from the air, the tug, devoid of human life 
and, blazing like Smyrna, had already begun to sink. A 
smile came to Ralph’s countenance. 

“Point one in our favor," he declared. “Now for the 
next.” 

But the barrels of several very ugly revolvers halted any 
further movement. Czar, with two of the crew, appeared 
in the companionway. They advanced aiming. 

“Get on yer feet, the both o’ yuh!” the First Mate com¬ 
manded. 

As they complied, Ralph dropped his revolver to the floor 
and squeezed Loma’s hand. His eyes twinkled and he 
grinned. 

“No use resisting, Loma,” he said, “they can’t do any 
more than kill me, and Fve already helped put a stop to 
the wholesale murdering that’s going on ashore. I’m satis¬ 
fied.” 

“You won’t be satisfied long,” Czar growled. “What 
don’t happen to you for this little trick ain’t worth doin’.” 

“Just as your honor says, Mister Captain,” Ralph mocked. 
“Fve had my fun, now I’m ready for the medicine. Where 
do we go from here?” 

“Shut up!” snarled the First Mate. Then he addressed the 
pair of seamen: “Lead ’em to the larboard deck,” he 
commanded. “I’ll follow. Wait!” he added. “Search Miss 
Nelson for a gun.” 

From Loma’s belt .one of the seamen drew the revolver 
and handed it to Czar. Then with the seamen leading, 


The Scarlet Ladder 


125 


Loma and Ralph in the middle, and Czar following, the short 
column headed up the companionway and presently emerged 
on the larboard deck. 

A startling sight met Loma and Ralph. Senator Grover 
J. Weston and the members of the United States Bu¬ 
reau for the Investigation of Conditions in Russia were 
lined in a single file, their hands above their heads, their 
personal belongings piled in a heap on the deck. Facing 
them was the mutinied crew of the freighter, revolvers 
drawn and aimed. 

Ralph did not recognize his father. He and Loma were 
ordered by the First Mate to stand in the neck of the com¬ 
panionway, and a clear view was not possible. 

“Watch ’em close,” Czar ordered the pair of seamen, “an’ 
if they make a break—shoot!” 

Then he advanced to the line of seamen that guarded the 
group of Americans. “Head for Port Said,” he called to a 
man on the poop deck, “and make it fast!” Then he faced 
the nearest seaman. “Crawford,” he said, “get a can o’ 
paint an’ mark out the name of 'Blue Gull—Portland—U. S. 
A/ on the helm. An’ you, Meckster,” he added, addressing 
the next man, “lower the flag and keep a sharp lookout from 
the mast.” 

The seamen had hardly started for their duties, when the 
man on the poop deck called to Czar. He held a pair of 
binoculars in his hand and pointed to the port side. 

“Sighted a destroyer on the port side,” he cried. “She’s 
headin’ straight for us. American—I think.” 

A murmur arose from the line of Americans, and the sea¬ 
men edged nearer with their revolvers. Czar bellowed an 
order. 

“Make our gang o’ distinguished guests lay down on the 
deck an’ keep quiet,” he yelled. Then he turned to the man 
on the poop deck. “Send the orders from me,” he com- 


126 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


manded, “as full speed ahead. Tell Farrell on the wheel to 
head East.” 

Reluctantly Senator Weston and his organization lay 
prone on the deck as the members of the crew threatened 
them with aimed revolvers. Ralph and Loma were forced 
back several paces in the companionway, and somehow, 
Loma noticed, Ralph did not seem so terribly disturbed as 
he should have been under the grave circumstances. A smile 
played continually on his lips and occasionally he made an 
unconcerned remark. Their guards had permitted them to 
talk a little, but now as the destroyer was within plain view, 
they demanded silence. Ralph grinned and complied. 


Chapter XVI 


At the helm of the United States Navy Destroyer, number 
329, a sailor, garbed immaculately in white, colored flags 
held in his hands, turned and faced the Commanding Officer. 

“They report, sir,” he said, “as a freighter from Suez. 
No refugees aboard. Also they claim to have seen the ex¬ 
plosion in the distance but do not know its origin.” 

“Order them to proceed,” the Officer commanded. “We 
apologize—mistake in identity.” 

Then he turned and entered the forward cabin. A Petty 
Officer gripped the wheel. They exchanged salutations. 

“Shift your course,” he ordered, “direct to Smyrna. I 
don’t think Senator Weston’s-” 

The sailor with the signaling flags appeared at the door¬ 
way and interrupted the speech. His excitement was ob¬ 
vious. 

“Report, sir,” he said. “As I watched the freighter’s lar¬ 
board I saw signs of a struggle. A fight on deck ensued and 
one man leaped overboard and is swimming toward us. 
Shots from one gun have been fired at him.” 

“Head for the man and then for the ship!” the Com¬ 
mander cried, addressing the petty Officer. “And you," he 
added to the sailor, “report to Officer Whitley and order the 
gun crew to their positions. Then signal the freighter to 
stop—or we fire !” 

One minute later Destroyer 329 was headed for Ralph 
Weston at full speed. 

* * * 

After studying the sensational accounts of the brilliant 
rescue as reported in the three leading New York City news¬ 
papers, the Philadelphia Public Ledger and the Los Angeles 
Times, I have selected headlines and articles from each to 
conclude my narrative: 


128 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


HEROIC EFFORT OF ONE AMERICAN SAVES LIVES OF 
SENATOR WESTON AND INVESTIGATION BUREAU AT 

SMYRNA 

Constantinople, September 12, 1922. 

Only the heroic bravery of Ralph Weston, son of Senator Grover 
J. Weston, saved the life of his father and twenty-five members of 
the American Bureau of Investigation. 

The party were returning from Russia when caught in the advance 
of Kemal’s Army at the seaport of Smyrna where they awaited trans¬ 
portation to Italy. 

When the city was burned the U. S. Destroyer 329 was ordered 
to Smyrna to take them aboard. Conditions in the seaport became 
so precarious that the party was forced to leave in a motor launch. 
The freighter Blue Gull was overtaken and a transfer executed at 

sea. 

The Blue Gull is an American ship from Portland, Oregon. The 
crew had mutinied under the command of First Mate Sunday, and 
Captain Nelson and his daughter, Loma, were in grave danger. Once 
Senator Weston and his party were aboard, they were taken prison¬ 
ers by the crew. 

The Destroyer 329 met the Blue Gull and by an exchange of 
signals was convinced that no American refugees were aboard. The 
Destroyer headed for Smyrna when Ralph Weston, in the face of 
a dozen revolvers, fought a terrific fist battle with his captors and 
succeeded in jumping overboard. For some unexplained reason, the 
revolvers in the hands of the crew failed to discharge, and it was not 
until the First Mate used a weapon taken from the daughter of 
Captain Nelson, that shots were fired at Mr. Weston as he swam 
toward the Destroyer, and the party of American refugees, who 
had followed his lead and rebelled, were quieted. 

(Ralph might have informed the reporter of this article the reason 
for the non-explosion of the revolvers, but he chose to remain 
silent—as heroes usually do.) 

Sailor Whellin of the Destroyer sighted the fight on the Blue 
Gull and the dive of Weston to the sea. Commanding Officer 
Lichston ordered full speed ‘ahead and Weston was rescued. 
He told what had occurred and the Destroyer gave chase to the 
fleeing freighter. After firing a shot across the bow it was over¬ 
taken, but only after a severe hand to hand fight, in which Weston 
again distinguished himself by conquering the First Mate as he fled 
with the Captain’s daughter, was the mutinied crew subdued. Captain 


The: Scarlet Ladder 


129 


Nelson was released from the hold and the Blue Gull proceeded 
to Constantinople flying the American flag and escorted by the 
Destroyer. 

Mr. Ralph Weston was wounded twice, but not severely, as he 
swam for help after creating the fight that caught the attention of 
Sailor Whellin. It was a great bit of personal heroism on his part, 
according to eye-witnesses, and it is possible that he will be awarded 
the Congregational Medal for extreme bravery under fire. Not 
since the World War has an American citizen distinguished himself 
under such a test. And whether or not Mr. Weston receives the 
Medal, he certainly deserves an award of some sort for his meri¬ 
torious display of bravery. What might have been the fate of his 
father and the accompanying party, had not Mr. Weston risked his 
own life, is difficult to surmise. 

* * * 

Of course everything was explained, as it usually is, and 
Loma learned why Ralph went to Foo Yen’s haven that 
night in Shanghai, and Ralph learned why Captain Nelson 
subjected him to the strange diet. 

And it is as unnecessary for me to tell you that Senator 
Weston is the proudest and happiest man in the world; that 
Captain Nelson admits he was wrong in the first place about 
his specimen’s character (weakness) ; that when a certain 
Colonel Upton of the U. S. Marines, read the above article, 
he forgot there ever was such a deserter as the Senator’s 
namesake, and that Czar Sunday and his crew are interned 
definitely by the authorities, as it is for me to tell you that 
Captain Nelson exercised his ministerial authority and per¬ 
formed a marriage at sea, while Senator Weston looked on 
with approval. 

It had been a battle for Ralph Weston, a great battle up 
the scarlet ladder, step by step, to the top and success. But 
he had fought like a man always fights, and he had won— 
not only over his vile habits, but he had won the right to the 
love of his own father, and had married the most wonderful 
girl in all the world (which is a very trite but a very effective 
way of putting it). 












1 




SAY IT WITH DREAMS 

































I 





SAY IT WITH DREAMS 


Chapter I 

It wasn’t so much the fact that Marie Vardell and Com¬ 
pany went broke and left her meager salary unpaid that 
bothered Irene. What upset her usual poise and perfectly 
balanced equilibrium and annoyed her considerably, was the 
distance in harsh cold miles that separated her dancing 
feet from the pleasing planks of a new stage—which meant, 
of course, that she had expended several of her very few 
dollars to inform a booking agent of her predicament, and 
that he had, in return, answered her with an offer in San 
Francisco, transportation not forwarded, some two hundred 
miles distant. How to get there was the problem, at present 
unanswerable. 

Recounting her financial status for perhaps the one-hun¬ 
dredth time, she balanced it at an even nine dollars. The 
fare to the Bay City totaled fifteen dollars and fifty cents. 
Thanks to the remaining funds of the dispersed troupe, her 
heretofore delinquent hotel bill was paid to date, and, fur¬ 
thermore, she had indulged in the favorite pastime of eating, 
less than ten hours previous. This was a comforting rec¬ 
ollection to be sure, but did not assist in the least to trans¬ 
port her salary drawing pumps to ’Frisco and the new stage 
that waited. 

Irene Dare, better known to the small time circuits as 
“That Kid From Madrid," was a youthful product in a 
twice-a-day game that should have been a lot better known 
and for which she should have been drawing a much heavier 
salary. A year previous, when she calmly defied her rigid 
aunt and left the sleeping village of Oakdale to write her 



134 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


name in bright lights across the theatrical world, her am¬ 
bitions had been almost beyond imagination. It was the old 
story. Everyone at the local High School entertainments 
thought her dancing beyond compare. At the socials she was 
a riot. And that was the beginning of her career, as most 
careers begin. 

Naturally Aunt Celia was flatly against such idiotic fool¬ 
ishness from the start. And if Irene had abided by her 
staunch arguments this story would never have been written. 
But Irene had a mind of her own and she used it. Under 
remarkable circumstances, too. For Aunt Celia was a 
very wealthy woman, as most aunts are in fiction realms, 
and she had no heir other than Irene. To disobey the man¬ 
date of money is bad business, but Irene knew absolutely 
that success would be hers, and she took the chance. 

A month afterwards found her in the rear row of a 
vaudeville chorus. Then came a specialty number and she 
was given the rare opportunity of doing a single. A Cali¬ 
fornian by birth, she chose the costume and dance of her 
native-land—a Spanish tango—but the parrot-beaked pro¬ 
ducers of the show, with an insight for publicity, billed her 
as “That Kid From Madrid” and the title stuck. She was 
not bad in the number, and she was deliciously pretty, so 
she clung to it from one troupe to the next. Hence her 
stranded predicament—two hundred miles from a job and 
salary, with hardly more than half the fare. Rather an¬ 
noying, one would say, at the least. 

Should she wire Aunt Celia her plight, undoubtedly it 
would be instantly solved, for she knew where the tender 
spot lay, and furthermore, she knew that her aunt loved 
her dearly. But Irene had left Oakdale to make a success 
and to wire now would only prove her failure. No, she 
would starve before she went to her aunt for aid. Some¬ 
thing would surely intervene and save her that degrading 


Say It With Dreams 


135 


plea. Why, that would mean the shattering of her fondest 
dreams—a return to her aunt and Oakdale as a failure. 
Never, never in all the world would it voluntarily occur. 

And then as she sat on her sealed trunk in her dingy 
hotel room and racked her mind for some plausible solution, 
a brilliant thought blossomed and came to her rescue. Sev¬ 
eral times in her initial year of experience, she had been cast 
by directors in minor musical comedy roles to portray the 
part of a child, perhaps for no better reason than her youth¬ 
ful appearance. Her hair was a chestnut shade and bobbed. 
Her eyes were a turquoise blue and deep as a jungle pool. A 
cherry-red mouth was precisely curved, while her flesh was 
milk-white in color and tinged with pink. When she smiled 
(which was often) she displayed a pair of dimples on 
genuinely crimson cheeks. In a bathing suit, Mack Sennett 
would have signed her on sight. Summing her up, or 
rather her appearance, it might be said that if beauty was 
desired she was everything anyone could possibly wish for. 

So Irene was beset by the aforementioned brilliant idea 
and she lost no time in putting it into action. From the 
shabby recesses of her trunk she procured, after a diligent 
search, a child’s dress which she had worn in a former 
production, and then following another aggravating search, 
the little flimsy things that go with it. A scrubbing with 
soap and water erased the traces of cosmetics from her 
flesh. Cotton stockings and Mary Jane pumps replaced 
silken hose and high-heel slippers on her shapely limbs and 
tiny feet. A huge satin hair-ribbon of baby blue formed a 
bow on her head. Then came white bloomers of lace, and 
finally the cute little organdy dress itself. A large red apple 
left over from her last meal gave to the collection an effect 
that is directorially known as the personal touch. 

Less than one-half hour later a sweet little girl of per¬ 
haps ten or twelve stood before a window in a dinky rail- 


136 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


road station and smiled upward at the inspecting gaze of a 
scowling ticket agent. For dramatic effect she took a huge 
bite out of a red apple in her hand. 

“What’s yer age?” the agent demanded, his eyes bulging 
behind their thick glasses. 

“Fll be eleven in two weeks and five days.” 

“Want a one way ticket to San Francisco, do you?” 

“Yes, sir, my mother lives there. Fve been visiting 
grandma at the farm. Maybe you know her. She-” 

“Seven dollars an’ fifty cents; half fare,” the agent cut 
her short and shoved a green slip through the cage. Irene 
counted out the sum, dollar by dollar, and was presently 
in possession of a much desired ticket. With childish 
gestures, she seated herself on a hard bench in the waiting 
annex and watched with interest the coming of a rain storm 
from the West. 

Soon the patter of rain drops became audible and shortly 
afterwards the ’Frisco-bound express thundered up to the 
station. With a word of caution the agent assisted her up 
the steps and presently Irene passed down the aisle of a 
crowded day-coach. She found a vacant seat and moved 
over near the window where she watched the storm and 
smiled craftily to herself. 

A vendor came down the narrow aisle and an old lady 
with a kind face and sweet smile called Irene a nice little 
girl and bought her a bag of peanuts. Irene displayed her 
appreciation by borrowing a newspaper from her, and in the 
pretense of reading the funny sheet, she freshened her mind 
on the theatrical column. Then down the swaying aisle came 
the uniformed conductor. He paused opposite Irene’s seat 
and grinned. 

“Well, well,” he said, as Irene glanced up childishly, 
“quite a little girl to be travelin’ alone, ain’t you?” Irene 
handed him her ticket and smiled. 



Say It With Dreams 


137 


“I’m nearly eleven,” she replied. “Once before when I 
was only nine I went from Phoenix to Los Angeles all alone. 
I’m not afraid.” It was a reassuring sound to hear his clip¬ 
pers punch the ticket. 

“You’re a brave girlie. Now don’t lose this stub,” he 
handed her a punched slip, “and here’s a nickel for you.” 
It was hard for her to control a sigh of relief as he passed 
down the aisle to the adjoining coach. 

The light rain had turned to a flooding torrent as the 
afternoon passed and now as the preliminary rays of dusk 
descended, Irene looked out the window at a dismal coun¬ 
tryside. Presently the train drew to a halt at a small village 
not unlike the one from which she had recently departed. 
Outside on a muddy street a loud commotion became audible. 
It grew in volume and swelled until Irene pressed her nose 
against the rain dripping pane and stared. A strange sight 
met her gaze: 

Running with obviously all the combined speed he could 
command, came a youngish appearing man. His straw hat 
was crushed over his ears. His flashy garments of dress 
were wringing wet and spattered with mud. His collar was 
torn off, and his necktie hung loosely about his neck. A 
battered suitcase dangled from his hand, while his left eye 
was bruised to a perfect charcoal color. With each leap 
his speed increased. 

Following closely at a rapid pace in his uncertain wake, 
were what appeared to be a dozen or more leading citizens. 
From their mouths flowed angry threats and bitter curses, 
while bricks, and what seemed to Irene as small bottles, 
flew from their hands. With a splash the fleeing young man 
pitched headlong into a black puddle of mud. As he jumped 
to his feet and once more dashed for the steaming train, 
his straw hat and a bit of his scalp remained behind. One 
of the greatly annoyed leading citizens had evidently played 
baseball; anyway his aim had been perfect. 


138 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


Tossing his suitcase ahead of him the young man leaped 
aboard the train as it slowly regained its momentum and 
chugged past the station. Presently he appeared in the 
aisle of Irene’s coach and glanced the length of the car for 
a vacant seat. Hers was the only one and he quickly made 
his way toward it. Sliding his suitcase behind the partition, 
he flicked a clot of mud from the point of his nose and 
turned in a semicircle facing the throng of curious pas¬ 
sengers that stared more or less bewildered at his unde¬ 
niably humorous aspect. 

“Ladies and gentlemen/' he said in a clear voice, address¬ 
ing the crowded coach in general, but particularly the con¬ 
ductor who had suddenly emerged from the smoker, an 
angry gleam in his eyes, “you are at a loss, as I well under¬ 
stand, to grasp just what has occurred. To you, I undoubt¬ 
edly appear as an ostracized vagabond, a scoundrel, an 
outcast. And far be it from me to blame you for this im¬ 
pression. I realize perfectly what an outrageous descension 
I have made in your calm midst. And, furthermore, I feel 
it my duty to at least offer an explanation—I leave it to 
your fair judgment as to the extent of my guilt or inno¬ 
cence.” Hesitating to smile in a benevolent fashion, he 
stroked the shaded rim under his eye, but noting the stern 
expression on the conductor’s countenance, quickly con¬ 
tinued : 

“Yes, friends, I feel I owe you an apology. The small 
town you have recently passed, as you perhaps know, is 
Bengate,—Bengate, California. I am its legal mayor by 
election, and in the past year I have tried my utmost to be 
a just and fair regulator of its policies. It is my humble 
birthplace and I love it with all my heart—the home of my 
father, my ancestors. But, friends, soon after my election 
last July, I realized that I had been put in a position of 
power by the leading citizens for a sinister purpose. I was 


Say It With Dreams 


139 


young and they thought I could be easily handled, more so 
than my political rival, so they shoved me with all their pull 
and I was elected. 

“The inevitable occurred; I refused flatly to listen to their 
crooked irrigation schemes, and after every attempt possible 
had been made to blacken my integrity and loyalty to the 
township, they set a deliberate trap and framed me. The 
outrageous scene you have so recently witnessed is the cli¬ 
max of their foul plans. Public sentiment has turned against 
me. I am ruined. Defeated because I attempted to uphold 
the law. Friends, that little town is my home, and before 1 
allow a gang of land thieves to govern it, I will die fighting. 
That’s all there is to tell, folks. I don’t know how to thank 
you for your kind indulgence in listening to this ill fortune, 
but you may be sure I appreciate it. And when once again 
justice is supreme in Bengate, I’ll be only too glad to wel¬ 
come any one of you into its realms. I thank you.” 

With a condescending bow he smiled cheerily and re¬ 
treated down the aisle to the smoker. It was apparent 
that he had won, not only the occupants of the coach to his 
side, but also the conductor, who shook his hand as he disap¬ 
peared behind the door of the men’s compartment. 


Chapter II 


Although he hardly favored her with a single glance, 
Irene stared with childlike eyes at the young mayor from 
his initial appearance. It was not only because he was 
an object to be stared at, but under the coating of mud he 
appeared to be a quite desirable chap. And also, she 
noticed, not bad to look at. His hair and eyes were dark, 
while his face was tanned to a healthy bronze. He was not 
too tall, as most heroes are, and not overly handsome. 
Although his smile was that of a college lad, there was 
something cynical about his face, something undefinable, 
which Irene was at a loss to place. She sympathized 
with him, and the plight his attempt at justice had 
snared him into aroused her ire. It was horrible to ruin 
his undoubtedly brilliant career when he was so young, she 
thought. But unlike her neighboring passengers, she did not 
give vocal vent to her feelings. As she listened, careful 
not to display too much interest, all she was able to over¬ 
hear was praise for the ostracized mayor and scorn for the 
village of Bengate and its crooked citizens. For some reason 
she felt pleased that victory with the travelers had been his. 
And the thought that he was to sit beside her, was not 
without its merits. 

The abrupt appearance of the conductor at the smoker 
door interrupted Irene’s thoughts. He held up his hand for 
silence and all eyes in the coach riveted upon him. 

“People,” he said after a cough and brief pause, “you’ve 
heard Mayor Ralph Fenton’s story. Forced as he was to 
leave his home without warning, he naturally came unpre¬ 
pared. Is there some gentleman in the car that will be kind 
enough to loan him a shirt and collar until he reaches the 
city? Mine are all too big or I’d gladly accommodate him.” 


Say It With Dreams 


141 


He had barely concluded when several of the younger pas¬ 
sengers were headed for the smoker with their grips. It was 
almost a race between them, so eager were they to aid the 
dethroned official. Again the thought of his victory with the 
travelers pleased Irene. She wished there was some way 
she might aid him. But, of course, being only a little eleven 
year old girl made it quite impossible, ridiculous in fact. 
Perhaps though, destiny—who could tell? 

A hushed silence swept over the coach as once again the 
door to the smoker swung open. Followed by the con¬ 
ductor and the several young men that had so willingly come 
to his aid, emerged Mayor Ralph Fenton, late of Bengate. 
Blis features were cleansed of the mud, as were his garments. 
Not only did he wear a fresh shirt and collar, but one of 
his new acquaintances had insisted on the acceptance of a 
silk handkerchief, while still another had donated an extra 
straw hat. He paused at the head of the aisle and bit his 
lip as though to control surging emotions. As he spoke his 
eyes dimmed and there came feeling in his words. 

“Friends,” he began, “I don’t know how to thank you. I 
probably never will be able to. But from the bottom of 
my heart I appreciate your kindness even more than you can 
possibly imagine. You’ve been wonderful—just wonder¬ 
ful.” 

With that, tears wet his dark eyes and he wiped them away 
with the recently acquired handkerchief. Then he shook the 
hands of his benefactors, one by one, and praised the con¬ 
ductor to the skies for his priceless assistance. A moment 
later he patted Irene tenderly on her chestnut hair, and seated 
himself with a cheerful smile beside her. 

Their conversation began almost instantly, at his instiga¬ 
tion, and Irene found the young mayor very easy to talk 
with. Although she chose her words with diligent care, it 
was difficult to refrain from expressing her real thoughts, 
and several times she nearly erred. 


142 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


“I don’t understand much about it,” she said with an 
attempt at youthful seriousness, knocking her knees together 
and playfully toying with the nickel the conductor had given 
her, “but I feel awfully sorry for you, mister. Did those 
mean men hurt you?” 

“No, little girl,” he replied, “but they would have if 
they’d caught me. They were mad.” 

“How long do you suppose your eye will stay black?” 
she fingered her own smooth flesh in kiddish horror. 

“Nearly a week, I guess.” 

“Do you think beefsteak would help it? My father got 
kicked by a pig once, so ma told me, and that’s what he put 
on it.” 

“I doubt it. But let’s talk about something cheerful, 
Miss—Miss-” 

“Irene Dare. Everybody calls me Dot at home. Why 
don’t you call me Dot?” 

“From now on I most certainly will, Dot.” 

“Gee, I do feel sorry for you, Mister Mayor. And if it 
wasn’t for your eye you’d be so handsome. I like hand¬ 
some men. So does mother, but pa says they’re too soft 
and mushy. I don’t believe him, though. Do you?” 

“Well, it’s hard to state definitely, Dot. They’re not all 
alike. But you must call me Ralph if you want me to call 
you Dot. And now here comes the porter announcing 
dinner, so you be a nice little girlie, and we’ll dine together. 
Will you allow me?” 

He rose to his feet and offered his arm. Reluctantly 
Irene slid from the seat and blushed. Then she gave him 
her most wistful look, and locked her slender arm in the 
curve of his. 

“This is awfully dandy of you, Mister Ralph,” she de¬ 
clared as they passed down the aisle followed by approving 
glances from the throng of passengers, “I like you. When 



Say It With Dreams 


143 


I grow up I’m gonna marry a man like you. If I were old 
enough, and pretty and sweet, would you marry me?” 

He grinned broadly and pinched her caressingly on the 
crimson of her cheek. The car lurched and Irene thrilled, 
as in steadying her, his hands clasped gently on her slender 
arms. 

“Any man in the world would be honored to marry such a 
wonderful little lady as you’ll be some day,” he replied. “I’m 
almost tempted to wait,” he added with a laugh. Irene 
liked his reply, but the laugh was not so becoming. 

In the beginning she had not considered the humorous as¬ 
pect of their swiftly developed friendship, but now that the 
fun had started, she could not resist the provocation to 
further such delightful humor. 

Perhaps too, she thought, it would relieve his worried 
mind of the troubles that no doubt swamped it. She had 
wanted to aid him in what was undoubtedly his crisis; here 
was evidently the opportunity. 

It was the most appetizing meal Irene had enjoyed since 
leaving Aunt Celia’s table at Oakdale. Her host ordered 
for both with reckless and assiduously correct profusion, 
and his conversation, or rather his answers to her questions, 
held her in a continual suspense of merriment. Of course 
she secreted her enjoyment under a mask of childish ges¬ 
tures, and girlish moods, but that only served to make it 
more intriguing, and once it was all she could do to control 
her emotions. 

When the filet mignon was served, the late mayor insisted 
on dissecting Irene’s portion, so she sat back as he carved, 
a smile on her red lips, a bright twinkle in her turquoise eyes. 
And when she jerked her fingers away from a warm plate 
and said she had burned them, he took her small hand in the 
palm of his own and comforted her tenderly. A sensation 
swept through Irene such as she had never previously ex- 


144 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


perienced. For a brief moment she vaguely wondered if she 
were falling in love. No, she felt sorry for him—that was 
it, she decided, and put the thought out of her mind. 

How utterly ridiculous to fall in love with a man she had 
known hardly more than an hour; a stranger who thought 
her a mere child, and who had undoubtedly been kind to 
her for no other reason than the fact that the passengers in 
the coach would expect such conduct from a public official 
such as he. Or possibly she had helped erase the shadow 
of his misfortune. Anyway, the thought that she was fall¬ 
ing in love was beyond reason. She giggled and pur¬ 
posely spilled a bit of her salad on the table-cloth. 

The negro waiter placed a heaping plate of ice cream be¬ 
fore her. Irene eyed it for a moment, her forehead wrinkled 
in disgust. “Mister Ralph,” she declared, pouting, “I think 
it’s a shame to let them give me such a small dish. I simply 
adore ice cream. Don’t you?” With a curt instruction he 
doubled the order. Then he patted her hand and grinned. 

“Anything that’s not just right,” he said, “you tell Uncle 
Ralph and he’ll get it, or know the reason why.” 

Dinner finished, they retreated to the coach, and now as 
the train rambled through a dark gloomy night, they sat 
side by side and chatted in a pleasant vein. Although she 
denied it even to herself, Irene knew down deep in her heart 
that the young mayor made a tremendous appeal to her. 
And he, himself, seemed to be enjoying her presence not a 
little. But of course, she sighed, he only thought her a 
little girl and that took all the romance out of it in a flash. 
Perhaps if she unfolded her secret to him he would really 
care for her. No, that would never do. To him she was 
a mere child, and as such she would have to remain. 

“If I were a man, when I grew up I’d be mayor like you 
are,” Irene declared with kiddish gusto, “sure I would. But 
I’m only a girl, so I guess there’s nothing else for me to be 


Say It With Dreams 


145 


but a dancer. I dance awfully nice, Mister Ralph; do you ?” 

“Occasionally I risk it,” he replied, laughing. “But I can’t 
say I’m a marvel. I’d like very much to see you dance, 
though. I'll bet on a polished floor you’re just wonder¬ 
ful.” 

“You bet I am. And when I grow up and am a pretty 
lady, I’m going on the stage and be the best dancer in the 
world. I practice every day and everybody says I have 
awfully cute legs for a dancer. Do you think my legs are 
cute ?” 

Irene slid her organdy dress above her dimpled knees and 
displayed her shapely limbs. “Feel how firm they are,” she 
added, hardly able to control her laughter. “That comes 
from dancing every day.” 

Embarrassed, the young mayor blushed to a scarlet. 
“Yes,” he replied, attempting to conceal his discomfort, 
“they are pretty. Now put down your dress, Dot. Here 
comes the candy man and we're gonna have some nice 
chocolates.” 

After Irene had selected an array of candy and fruit, to 
say nothing of several packages of chewing-gum, her newly 
acquired acquaintance dismissed the vendor and they were 
again alone. From her blue eyes she stared at him with 
child-like adoration—the awe of youth for age, and under 
her direct gaze he slightly wavered. After a long silence 
she favored him with the sweetest smile she could com¬ 
mand. 

“You’re the nicest man I’ve ever known,” she declared. 
“I wish I was old enough to be your wife. You’re so hand¬ 
some I bet all the other ladies would want to take you away 
from me. I wouldn’t let them, though, would I ?” The 
opportunity offered such unlimited chance for concealed 
humor that Irene could not resist the temptation. 

He turned and gazed down in her blue eyes. An ex- 


146 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


pression of annoyed befuddlement clouded his face. Care¬ 
fully he noted her childish garments of dress. 

“How old are you, Dot?” he casually inquired, his dark 
eyes hovering from her rounded bosom to her trim ankles. 

“I’m nearly eleven,” she answered, a trace of fear in 
her eyes, for she realized she had gone a bit too far in her 
last question. “In another year I’ll have to pay full fare to 
ride on the train. Just think, Mister Ralph, twice as much. 
Oh, look! I can see the lights of the city already. We must 
almost be there!” A change of topic was paramount, she 
realized. 

“Yes, Dot. Twenty minutes more and we’ll be at Third 
and Townsend.” If he had suspected her the thought had 
apparently vanished. “Do you intend to stay in ’Frisco 
long?” he added. “Perhaps your mother will allow me to 
take you riding in Lincoln Park. I won’t be there for over 
a week myself. Just long enough to mass my evidence 
against those mean men who chased me. But you can tele¬ 
phone me at the St. Francis Hotel, if you’d like to, and we’ll 
go for a dandy ride.” 

“Gee, that’s awfully nice of you, Mister Ralph. But I 
don’t know how long we’re going to stay in the city. And 
besides, mother is always so terribly busy I never get to go 
anywhere. But if she’ll let me, I surely will.” 

She might have been mistaken but it seemed to Irene that 
her inability to accept his invitation prompted the young 
mayor to utter a soft sigh of relief. That presented a new 
and distinctly annoying problem. She concentrated on it. 

At the Third and Townsend Street Terminal, after again 
thanking his benefactors for their charitable aid and praising 
the conductor, the ostracized mayor of Bengate bade Irene a 
fond farewell and after pinching her cheek tenderly and 
caressing her little hand, he was lost in the vast throng. 

As she boarded a trolley with the intention of finding a 


Say It With Dreams 


147 


room, Irene suddenly realized that he had not repeated his 
kind invitation for a ride in Lincoln Park. Had he seen 
through her mask, she vaguely wondered, and thought her 
a trickster? Or was he just bored? That was undoubtedly 
it—he was bored with her childish company. She had dis¬ 
turbed him, rather than soothed him in his crisis. That had 
been mean of her, she realized, and wondered if there was 
some way in which she could repay. 

Somehow she seemed so lonely as she sat there in the 
clattering trolley, as though her last friend in the world 
had departed. But that was foolishness, she told herself. 
How could she possibly care for a person she hardly knew. 
As soon as she found a place to live and saw her booking- 
agent, she would feel better. It wasn’t him she missed, it was 
just plain ornery loneliness. 


Chapter III 


The offices of the notorious Smooth Face Salve Co. are 
far from elaborately conspicuous, but they are always 
crowded by busy out-of-town salesmen and cigar smoking 
officials of the firm. Its important revenue is derived from 
the small villages where a credulous population rely on 
doubtful statements, to-wit: “Smooth Face Salve will, 
without fail, stop the growth of facial beards after a single 
week of continuous applications.” Usually the traveling 
distributor takes the precaution of vanishing before the 
week has ended. Some don’t. Ralph Fenton, alias the 
Mayor of Bengate, was one who didn’t. 

With his battered suitcase in hand, he strode briskly into 
the Company office and finally to the private den of the to¬ 
bacco chewing manager. Startled by the abrupt entree, the 
official glared at him through black rimmed spectacles. 

“I quit!’’ yelled Ralph, slamming his suitcase down on a 
polished desk, “I quit, now and forever! Look at me, you 
lummox, you bum beard stopper! See my eye? Well, take 
a look at the chunk that’s missing from my dome! What 
happened? You have the nerve to ask me? Why your 
damn rotten junk that you call Beard Salve didn’t work, as 
you knew it wouldn’t. But you didn't tell me that, did you ? 
No, you showed me a stack of forged testimonials from 
would-be clients. And I fell like a rock for your dirty gag. 
What happened ? Why, you poor simp, I stayed right there 
in Bengate for eight days, after selling two hundred bottles, 
and when the stuff didn’t stop the growth of beards, and a 
druggist tested it and found it to be cheap cold cream, they 
ran me out of town! Threw bricks and some of your lousy 
bottles at me! Humiliated me before a coach full of pas- 


Say It With Dreams 


149 


sengers! I had to lie till I was blue in the face! And I 
thought I had a good job selling a legitimate product. If 
I had any political pull in this town I’d put you in the can for 
life, you small-time robber! But here’s what I’m gonna do, 
get me? And not a word out of you or I’ll take my story 
to the nearest newspaper for publication. Now listen!” 

Unlocking his suitcase which was partly filled with small 
brown bottles, Ralph jerked out a soiled order pad and 
swiftly turned to a definite page. The dazed manager spat 
out his wad of odorous tobacco and stood motionless, his 
frame quivering under the sudden assault, his expression one 
of mingled fear and astonishment. 

“Get your stenographer!’’ commanded Ralph, “and be 
quick about it!” When his demand had been complied with 
and a woman entered, pad in hand, he handed her a long list 
of names and addresses. 

“Put these names and addresses on separate envelopes,” 
he ordered, “and stamp them—ready for mailing. You 
may go now.” Then he faced the suddenly meek manager. 
“You sit yourself down at that desk and get out your check 
book, or I’ll phone the Chronicle. Understand ?” His fist 
banged the desk. 

Reluctantly, trembling and pleading, the manager com¬ 
plied. Pen in hand he paused for Ralph’s next word. 
Cold beads of perspiration wet his brow. His fingers 
trembled. 

“Make out,” Ralph commanded, “two hundred checks, 
each for a dollar and fifty cents. Make ’em out to cash— 
and sign ’em, get me?” 

“Yes, Mister,” was the only reply Ralph received, as 
the quivering manager began to write. When he finally 
finished and signed the last of the bulky stack, the stenog¬ 
rapher entered with the stamped envelopes. She placed 
them on the desk at Ralph’s instruction and disappeared. 


150 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


Ralph shook a pointed finger under the manager’s arched 
nose, an angry gleam sparkling in his eyes. The official 
melted to a listless pulp of quivering flesh. He hardly 
breathed. 

“Now give me a signed receipt for three hundred dollars 
cash,” he demanded, “and make out a personal check to me 
for fifty dollars expense money. Be quick about it!” 
While the manager meekly complied, Ralph slipped the 
checks in their envelopes and sealed them one by one. 
Binding the stack together with a rubber band and shoving 
it away in an inner pocket, he produced a wallet, and from 
its interior displayed a stack of currency. Under his count 
it balanced even three hundred dollars. Selecting fifty 
dollars he shoved it back in his wallet. The remainder he 
handed to the manager. 

“My commission,” he said. Then he took the check and 
receipt and strode to the doorway, where he paused. 

“If you try to stop payment on these checks I’m returning 
to the people you’ve buncoed,” he cried, shaking a clenched 
fist, “I'll go to the press with my story and they’ll run you 
out of town, you low sneaking cheat!” 

The door slammed with a crash on his retreating figure, 
and the exhausted manager sank to his chair with a bewil¬ 
dered sigh. “Three hundred dollars refunded,” he groaned. 
“And a hundred more to him! My God—such business— 
Oui!” 


Chapter IV 


The Midway Casino is a cafe and restaurant. Notorious 
it was in the old days, but with the advent of prohibition, 
it fell from grace until now nothing remains but the ashes 
of its old-time Barbary coast atmosphere. It occupies the 
large cement basement and main floor of an aged brick build¬ 
ing on Pacific Street, not far from the Columbus Avenue in¬ 
tersection. In its gaudy realms, the elite of the Bay City un¬ 
derworld makes merry each night from nine till dawn. Men 
about town swagger into its more or less respectable portals, 
when they leave their clubs on the two o’clock round. Cake- 
eaters dot its numerous tables and watch the nightly musical 
comedy performance. Here and there in the smoke clouded 
hall one finds a tourist or a slumming party, bent on seeing 
the famous quarter. And one invariably finds that pompous 
individual, Rufus Gunning, political boss of the underworld, 
enjoying his exaggerated glory at a ring-side table. 

The cuisine is fair, the bootleg worse. Its habitues re¬ 
main faithful and pitifully attempt to keep up its reputation. 
It prides itself on a “Frolic Revue,” each night from ten till 
two, when one may feast on a delicious row of curveful 
legs, bare shoulders, and be forced to hear voices that are 
frightful, in payment of their patronage. 

For the initial two weeks, Irene Dare, doing her single, 
“That Kid From Madrid,” thought she would not be able to 
stand the disgusting routine. The atmosphere was nauseat¬ 
ing, the patrons were for the most part vulgar, and collec¬ 
tively, she hated the Midway’s very idea. But her salary 
was larger here than she had ever previously earned, and she 
had the entire day to forget, so she stuck on, hoping against 
hope that her agent would be able to find her a better troupe, 


152 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


which was extremely doubtful, for the theatrical game was 
on a decided slump, and many old-timers were stranded. 

She had hardly made a single acquaintance with the other 
girls in the Revue and her only friend was Loko, the clown 
pantomimist, who dressed in the room adjoining hers. He 
was a freak, she thought, but unlike the other girls she 
called him by name, and not the “nut” as was their usual 
habit. He was tall, six feet three at the least, and crowned by 
a small tow-head. It was clean shaven like his lean face 
and shone when under the rays of scenery light. He was 
so slender, he impressed one as being nothing but a collec¬ 
tion of loose, angular bones. When he danced his grotesque 
number, it was almost impossible to comprehend his action 
and gestures. His hearing was marvelously developed, but 
he was hopelessly dumb. He danced to music that was as 
weird as his own appearance, and when the applause came— 
as it always did for he was quite a favorite—he laughed a 
gurgling monotone down deep in his throat. And that was 
the only sound anyone had ever heard him utter. 

One night after the performance, Irene was disturbed by 
a knock on her door and when she opened it, Loko stood 
posed in the arch. He had not removed his pale corpse¬ 
like make-up, although his gaudy clown costume hung over 
an angular arm. With sparkling jet eyes he spoke to her. 
An opened letter was gripped in his lean fingers. 

Irene was not long in grasping the meaning of his inter¬ 
ruption. He wanted the letter read to him. When they 
were seated, she unfolded it and began. It was dated three 
weeks previous in a small French province. With panto- 
mimical gestures he explained that until now, he had never 
been able to get anyone to read it for him—with perfect 
expressions and superb acting, he cleverly explained that 
they had all been too busy. 

Her sympathy aroused, Irene was not long in forming a 


Say It With Dreams 


153 


friendship with the strange character. Occasionally she read 
newspapers to him in the afternoons, following a rehearsal. 
Once he brought her a small gift, and on another occasion 
when a cake-eater announced himself at her dressing- 
room door following the show, he mysteriously appeared 
and it needed only a single glance from his vivid eyes to 
cause the intruder to beat a hasty retreat. She thanked him, 
and he grinned. And in that grin Irene recognized the lines 
of emotions, deep and passionate. 

* * * 

To those who knew him intimately (they were few to be 
sure), Rufus Gunning was a weak, unprincipled four-flusher. 
But to those who pointed him out as the great political boss 
of the Barbary Coast quarter, he appeared as an iron-fisted 
monarch. With him everything began and ended with 
blufif. He was a devoted worshiper at its frail shrine—a 
little god in the land of bull. 

Twenty per cent of the profits of the Midway Casino 
went into his pockets, while carte blanche in the hall was 
always his. He usually had his pick of the chorus girls too— 
but when he spied Irene one night during the second week 
of her engagement, and was introduced to her by Monsieur 
Gene Suttille, the owner and proprietor of the Casino, he 
met his first rebuff. She greeted him politely enough—but 
that was all, and the political boss was annoyed not a little. 

‘'She’s beautiful,” he repeated as he watched her danc¬ 
ing from a near-by table. “Seems to have good sense. I’ve 
shown I like her—what can be wrong? The other girls in 
the troupe welcome the opportunity of a night with me. 
What in damnation is wrong with this dame?’’ He gave it 
up with a sigh and had the suave manager fix him a date 
with Mable, “that blonde skirt—third from the left, in the 
front row,” as he put it. 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


154 

Now Gene Suttille, the proprietor of the notorious hall, 
was an enemy of the political boss, and Rufus, himself, 
knew this quite well. But he did not fear the dark com- 
plexioned Gene, in the least; far from it. He never feared 
anyone over whom he held a net of incriminating evidence. 
And the smooth Gene was tight in his grasp. Raw opium 
and illicit narcotics had been sold in the Midway, and Rufus 
knew just where the body was buried. It meant twenty 
years in a Federal Prison for Gene, if Rufus chose to put him 
there, and this Gene feared. But as long as a share of the 
profits were Rufus’, and he was given free run of the place, 
far be it from him to undermine his income and pleasure. 

Thus it was that they existed, side by side, night after 
night, and tolerated each other with calm indifference. 
Every desire Rufus expressed, which was within reason, 
Gene satisfied. Every favor he requested was complied with. 
He dined like a king and signed the cheque—never to see it 
again. He selected his girls from the chorus and Gene did his 
best to produce. Glory and fame as the power of the ten¬ 
derloin was his. Rufus Gunning reigned supreme and 
boisterously happy. A queer contrast with the undersized and 
brooding proprietor, who sat depressed and sulked at the 
side of his bulky nemesis. 


Chapter V 


In a city the population of San Francisco, one hundred 
dollars in the support of even a single individual will not go 
very far, and two weeks from the date of his abrupt resig¬ 
nation as an out-of-town salesman for the Smooth Face 
Salve Co., found Ralph Fenton with less than twenty dollars 
in his pockets, and a delinquent hotel bill, due in three days. 

It didn’t worry Ralph, though; he always seemed to get 
along somehow, sometimes better than other times, as is the 
way with most of us, but always he got along, which is what 
really matters, after all. He was gifted with a priceless 
ability to talk—talk fast, furious and perfect. Therefore 
he made an excellent salesman, but somehow he hated the 
thought of it. It seemed to him he should have been a 
lot higher up in the world than he was. Of course he 
realized that life on his own hook had struck him rather 
unawares—for only four years previous he had left college 
for the war, returned home wounded, and found his father 
dead. And then, instead of coming into a vast inheritance as 
he had expected, he made the startling discovery that his 
father had died in debt. It had taken a year to pay off those 
debts—a year of hard gruelling labor when his wounds 
should have been healing. But Ralph was determined, and 
when once he set his mind on a course of action, nothing 
could halt him. 

The debts paid, his father's honor upheld, Ralph pilgrim¬ 
aged from his native home in the state of New York to the 
border city of El Paso. For a while he tried ranching— 
but somehow he didn’t seem to fit. Then he moved to Los 
Angeles and took a shot at the real estate game, but it was 
the wrong part of the year for Eastern suckers, so he finally 


156 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


gave it up and went North. At Fresno he managed a 
bean ranch, but no advance above his present position was 
possible, so he quit. San Francisco found him flat broke 
and the Smooth Face Salve Co. proved a fortunate life 
saver. It would do till he got on his feet again, he decided, 
so he took a fling with the afore-mentioned result. 

Ralph knew perfectly well that somewhere there was 
something that would just exactly fit his uncertain capacity; 
a position or situation that would lift him above the throng— 
make him—and he was contented to search until he found it. 
What it was he hadn’t the least idea; but that eventually he 
would find it, he never for an instant doubted. 

The present predicament must be faced, he realized. He 
must have money, which meant work. But jobs were 
scarce in the Bay City and positions even more so. To be 
exact he tried several vocations he knew nothing about, 
and was speedily fired, which bothered him not a bit for it 
had occurred too many times previous. So now as he strode 
down Market Street, wandering aimlessly, for he had noth¬ 
ing better to do, he was suddenly beset with a bright idea. 
Perhaps the Child’s restaurant he paused in front of at the 
time, had something to do with the thought. Anyway, it 
occurred to him that he would make a wonderful waiter. 
Why not, he asked himself as he watched an immaculate- 
ly-white chef flop steaming hot cakes over a sizzling range? 
His favorite pastime, when not chasing rainbows or building 
imaginary castles, leaned in the direction of food, and no 
matter how lowering the profession of a waiter might be, 
it was nearer the kitchen than a bread-line. And then, too, 
perhaps the day would come when the famous Ralph Fenton 
Cafe’s, Inc., would circle the globe. There was no limit to 
the marvelous possibilities such employment offered. So 
Ralph turned about and retraced his steps up Market, keep¬ 
ing a sharp look-out for an employment bureau. 


Say It With Dreams 


157 


It never occurred to him that to be a first-class waiter one 
must be skilled at the task. He had decided to be a waiter 
and as far as he was concerned he was—that he would be 
unable to hold such a position never even entered his mind. 
At that moment it happened to be brimming over with 
dreams of the Ralph Fenton Cafe’s, Inc., and the pancake 
shuffling chef. * * * 

In a private chamber on the balcony of the Midway 
Casino, the quarters reserved for the proprietor, Gene 
Suttille, an argument was reaching heated proportions. With 
oily black hair and expressionless eyes he leaned across the 
narrow table as a sneer twisted his dry lips—Gene at his 
worst. 

Irene drew back nauseated. His very appearance re¬ 
pulsed her, and his direct insinuations were terrifying almost 
beyond endurance. 

“Now listen, honey,” he crooned, sliding his dark hand 
closer to Irene’s, and attempting to assume a benevolent ex¬ 
pression, “let’s quit this argument. You and I can get along 
smooth together, if you’ll only get some sense an’ listen to 
reason. I like yer act, and so does the audience. Yer going 
over great. But what I’m offerin’ you will make you a 
headliner. I’ll double yer salary. Give you a swamp of 
advertising. Let you lead the chorus, or any damn thing 
you want. But, honey, I want you to be good to me an’ 
pay some attention to Mr. Rufus Gunning. Why, kid, it’s an 
honor that he’d even talk to you. He’s our most promising 
politician down here on the lane. Can’t tell but what he’ll be 
mayor some day. He’s a great man, an’ he likes you. You’ve 
got him going, honey. He’s soft as mush on you. Is it a go ? 
You have dinner with Rufus after the show, or get your last 
pay in the mornin’.” 

It was no temptation for Irene. Her mind had been made 
up from the first. There was always Aunt Celia to turn to, 


158 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


and before she would lower herself to the level of a greasy 
political boss, she would forget the theatre forever. The 
very thought of him with his moist chalky features, his 
fat body, and bald head was repulsive to her. From occa¬ 
sional phrases dropped by the other girls in the troupe, 
she learned he was worse than she even feared to imagine. 
A certain blonde, Mable by name, was now in the hospital 
with severe injuries due to his brutal treatment, while his 
vulgar after-show orgies were common talk. At the thought 
of him for a companion, Irene grew weak and faint; never, 
never in the world would she condescend. It would be 
Oakdale and Aunt Celia first. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Suttille,” she replied, rising from the 
table and turning slightly toward the door that led to the 
balcony, “but your request is impossible. Mr. Gunning is 
probably a very nice man, but at present I’m refraining 
from all social affairs. So tonight will be my last perform¬ 
ance. I’ve enjoyed my engagement, and also my popu¬ 
larity, immensely. And I’m very sorry that it comes to such 
a climax as this. Good night, Mr. Suttille. You may 
expect me in the morning for my salary.” 

With that, Irene turned on her heels and started for the 
door. Like a snarling animal, the proprietor leaped past her 
and blocked her passage. He leaned back against the bal¬ 
cony door, his arms folded across his chest, a menacing grin 
twisting his face. 

“Just a minute, honey,” he said. “No hurry, you’ve got 
company. May I present the Hon. Rufus Gunning?” and 
then in the next breath, “Oh, you don’t want to see him? 
Well, you're gonna see him!” 

A door on the far side of the room abruptly swung open 
and the bulky political boss stepped out of a small closet. 

“'Greetings,” he cried, as he swiftly advanced, “my good 
friends. Or shall I say, friend, for I’ve just decided that 


Say It With Dreams 


159 


our fair dancer fails to care for me. Maybe a little per¬ 
suasion will change her views. Who knows, eh, Gene?” 

Irene fully realized the futility of screaming for aid; 
there would be only the henchmen of Gene to hear, or 
gangsters controlled by the political boss. The balcony was 
a forbidden realm and very rarely did the members of the 
show visit it. And even among them, who would dare to 
interfere ? 

“Please, Mr. Suttille,” Irene pleaded, “allow me to leave. 
You made me an unfair offer. I have refused. Now be 
kind enough to excuse me.” 

His answer was a snickering laugh. Then the grinning 
Rufus brushed the proprietor aside, and sunk his fat fingers 
in the tender flesh of her shoulder. 

“Be a nice dearie,” he growled, “and you'll not get hurt. 
I’m gonna be about the best daddy you ever had—so you 

might as well calm down. But if you don’t-,” the last 

was obviously a threat. 

Precisely at this critical moment, a very loud knock 
sounded on the panel of the balcony door and interrupted 
the icy phrase. Both Gene and Rufus riveted their eyes on 
each other, and stood motionless. Irene comtemplated the 
effect of a scream. Then the knock sounded again, this 
time louder than before. Gene shifted nervously. Rufus 
loosened his fingers from Irene’s shoulder. Then for the 
third time the rapping sounded. It was presently followed 
by a determined twisting of the brass knob. 

Rousing himself, Gene motioned Rufus and Irene to one 
side. Then he unsnapped the latch and turned the knob. 
Irene held her ground, determined to flee if opportunity 
offered. The door swung open. 

Poised, calm and serene in the oblong frame, stood 
Loko, the clown pantomimist. A cynical smile curved his 
lips. He bowed, gurgled something inaudible in his throat, 



160 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


and advanced a single step. Then, before Rufus or Gene 
were able to intervene, or in fact comprehend his movement, 
he offered his angular arm to Irene and escorted her swiftly 
out of the chamber and down the balcony toward the stage. 
Dumfounded, the bulky political boss and his brooding 
enemy, stared at each other in blank amazement. 

“My God!” they exclaimed simultaneously. “What the 
hell made us let that nut get away with that?" Neither 
cared to admit that a strange sparkle burned in the dumb 
pantomimist’s eyes. A jet sparkle that was in itself a warn¬ 
ing—they were both aware of that. 

Murmuring her gratitude, although she quivered from the 
excitement of the narrow escape, Irene clung tightly to her 
rescuer’s arm until the door of her dingy dressing room was 
closed behind them. Then, lighting a gas jet, she sank in a 
chair exhausted. Presently the realization that there was 
some one else in the room came to her. Loko nodded toward 
the couch and pointed a long finger. 

Frightened, Irene quickly turned about and her eyes rested 
on a young girl with blond hair, whom she instantly recog¬ 
nized as Mable, one of the chorus. The girl smiled and 
came forward. She walked slowly and leaned against the 
wall for support. 

“Of course, Loko couldn’t tell you,” she said. “But I’ll 
explain. You probably know I’ve been in a hospital because 
I was crazy enough to go out with that dirty rat, Rufus 
Gunning. Well, I got out this afternoon and I’ve come down 
here to see him. I was sittin’ in the main hall and he passed 
me up like I was smoke. I watched him though, dearie, and 
I saw him and Gene talkin’ together for a long time after 
you went to your room. Then I saw Rufus beat it for the 
private balcony, and Gene knock on your door. I knew 
Rufus was sweet on you—as all us girls do—so I guessed 
there was somethin’ up. When you followed Gene in the 


Say It With Dreams 


161 


room where Rufus had gone, I knew it. You didn’t come 
out, and I knew what happened to me, so I got worried. 
Then Loko came along and I told him. He did the rest. 
I came down here to hide till the show’s over. Then I’m 
gonna see Rufus. He’ll pay my doctor bill or I’ll know the 
reason why.” 

“How can I ever repay you ?” Irene declared. “If it 
hadn’t been for you, I’ve no doubt-.” 

“Aw, don't bother to thank me, dearie,” the girl inter¬ 
rupted. “You’d have done the same for me. And besides 
I’m not so strong for that pair of cut-throats, anyway. I’d 
like to see ’em both behind the bars. Thank Loko here— 
he’s the bird that got you out.” 

“I do thank him, and I realize I owe you both more than 
I can ever pay. And I’m terribly sorry about your in¬ 
juries ; is there anything I can do ? Anything at all ?” 

“There sure is!” the girl eagerly replied. “Let me hide 
here till the show’s over. If Gene sees me, he’s liable to run 
me out, and I’ve gotta see Rufus, I’ve just gotta, that’s all.” 

“You’re entirely welcome to stay as long as you like,” 
Irene declared. “And now, Loko,” she faced the tall clown, 
who had listened alertly to their conversation, his lean face 
hovering from one to the other, his brow corrugated in 
simple thought, “if you’ll excuse us, I’ll make myself ready 
for my last performance in the Frolic Revue. And thanks 
a hundred times for what you’ve done, tonight. You know I 
appreciate it, and I’ll see you again before I leave.” 

Smiling from ear to ear, the dumb pantomimist bowed 
with a broad gesture and departed. At the door he hesitated 
and shot an appealing glance at Irene. Then he was gone. 

“How the devil do you stand that nut, dearie?” Mable 
demanded. “He’s enough to drive a person bugs. I guess 
he comes in handy at times, though. He played the life saver 
tonight, all right. No tellin’ what Gene and Rufus would 
have done to you if he hadn’t butted in. They’re bad eggs, 
bad as they make ’em. From now on, I’m off these Pacific 
Street dumps, and dearie, take my advice—play an up-town 
theatre or nothin’.” 



Chapter VI 


It was a great night for the Midway. The Casino was 
jammed to the roof, and tables not used in many years, were 
dusted off and brought into play. Submerged with the over¬ 
flow and prompted by an annual convention of good-fel¬ 
lows from all over America, who were seeing the famous 
old quarter, the proprietor worked himself into an excited 
frenzy, and telephoned far and wide for waiters. A con¬ 
tingent arrived on the fly from an up-town bureau that ran 
their office hours late into the night, and were immediately 
sent to the kitchen for outfits of dress clothes. Then, as 
rapidly as they appeared, they were assigned to various tables 
where food-craving patrons cried aloud for nourishment. 

The idea of being rushed about from one table to another 
and hence to an odorous kitchen where Chinese cooks and 
greasy Filipino boys yelled orders in your ears and shoved 
heaping trays of steaming foods in your arms, hardly ap¬ 
pealed to Ralph in the light he had contemplated. But his 
twenty dollars had swiftly diminished and down in his 
heart he knew the Ralph Fenton Cafes, Inc., would be a 
great success; so when the call came for temporary waiters 
and the bureau telephoned him at his hotel, he strode into 
the new job as though he were a conquering knight in 
virgin domains. Then he stumbled with a tray and woke. A 
severe cursing was his penalty, and he was reassigned to 
a table in the rear of the hall where the gangsters and dock 
laborers usually gathered. He didn’t mind them so much as 
he did the lavender tinted chap who kept making eyes at him. 

He had never cared for the color anyway, and the dimpled 
chap was surely a study in it. But then at the Midway one 
finds every kind—from University students to safe crackers, 
and all the degrees that come between. 


Say It With Dreams 


163 


At their usual table, a little to one side but close enough 
to the footlights for a distinct view, sat the sulking Gene 
and the pompous Rufus. A cigar, fat like himself, protruded 
from the latter’s thick lips. His eyes bulged wide as his 
moist fist hit the table to accentuate his words. 

“Get me, Gene ?” he growled, chewing his cigar until to¬ 
bacco juice trickled over his chin. “No more stalls! I’m 
damn near through. Do you know what that means? Do 
you realize? It means that you’re gonna visit a Federal pen 
for about twenty years; and it means that I'm gonna get 
credit for breakin’ up the biggest gang of hop peddlers in 
the West, and election ain’t so very far off, you know. 
You’ve stalled me too long. I’ve taken about enough. And 
your not bein’ able to get that dame a little while ago cinches 
it! You let a skinny nut take her right out of my hands. 
Fine specimen, you turned out to be!” 

“Aw, Rufus, not so tough on me,” Gene forgot his 
brooding long enough to plead. “I ain’t so bad as that. 
If you want the skirt that much, I’ll get her for you. You 
sure must be hot on her. Ain’t never seen you act this 
way before. But for the love of God, let up on that hop 
stuff, somebody might overhear you. And besides, you ain’t 
got no kick. I give you twenty per cent, free grub, and 
everything you want. And if this Irene dame will keep you 
quiet, I’ll get her for you. I’ll get her if I have to knock her 
cold. Is it a bet?” 

“Get that girl for me, and get her tonight and I’ll shut 
my trap,” Rufus replied, spitting out his cigar and assuming 
a benevolent expression. “But if you fail to deliver, I’ll 
start talking, and when I do you’ll be inside lookin’ out, get 
me?” 

“You needn’t worry, Rufus,” Gene interrupted with a 
condescending gesture. “The skirt is the same as yours. 
After the show meet me backstage at the stairs what lead 


164 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


to the dressing rooms. She’s gotta come out that way—and, 
well, I’ve a little plan I think will stop her. Here, Rufus,” 
this came with a forced smile, “have a drink on me. 
Straight shall I make it, or a little ale?” 

“Ale,” Rufus replied, turning about and viewing the hall 
with a circling gaze. “Sure got a mob, tonight, Gene.” 

“Mob is right. I had to get extra waiters, dig up old 
tables, an’ put on a new bouncer. Convention in town—I 
guess they’d rather get stung here, on what’s left of the old 
Coast, than up-town. I’ve been billing the Revue purty 
heavy the last week, too. That may help account for the 
jam.” A pause, then, “Here, Rufus, I’m a drink ahead of 
you. Give me your glass.” Rufus complied. 

With a syncopated flare from a negro jazz band the curtain 
lifted on the small stage at the end of the hall, and from 
each wing there filed into the bright lights a column of girls 
in very abbreviated costumes. From an arbor in the scenery 
a young man appeared and led the rather pretty number 
with a popular song. Then the chorus danced off, and the 
orchestra began a weird harmonious melody that was some¬ 
how remindful of an Indian war dance. 

From a black velvet drop, Loko darted, his make-up chalk 
white, his skin-tight costume a blood scarlet. With a 
twirling gesture he spun in the air and dropped to his knees. 
Then as only a pantomimist can, he enacted a cleverly ex¬ 
aggerated comedy without words. His portrayal of the 
various characters was unique; each gesture, each move¬ 
ment, a word. When finally the curtain dropped, the huge 
audience applauded him wildly. With a barely audible 
gurgle he thanked them. Then, bowing deeply, he vanished 
in the wings, and the show went on. 

In the meantime, as the Frolic Revue progressed, and 
Rufus and Gene guzzled drink after drink, and the sub¬ 
stitute waiter, Ralph Fenton, Esq., stumbled from the kitchen 


Say It With Dreams 


165 


to his tables, Mable, late of the chorus, chatted with Irene as 
the latter waited her number. They were still in the dress¬ 
ing room. Irene had garbed herself in a Spanish costume 
of bright colors, and now she poised with tambourine in hand 
before a tall mirror, while Mable looked on in envious ad¬ 
miration. 

“Now don’t forget, dearie, what I’ve been tellin’ you,” 
Mable cautioned. “You go back home and stay there if 
you can’t play good houses. Fve tried these dumps, these 
side street dives, and what has it got me? I’m a has-been. 
Just a dizzy blonde, and I’m wise enough to know it. More 
still, I’m wise enough to get out while the gettin’s good.” 

“I do appreciate your advice,” Irene replied, dabbing the 
finishing touches on her make-up. “And this is my last 
performance here, thank the Lord. If my agent is unable 
to book me in vaudeville or an up-town theatre, it’s home for 
me. Although I do want to make a success, and I’ve tried 
so hard that the thought of failure just sickens me. Never¬ 
theless, I’ll go home rather than endure any more of this.” 

“That’s the way to talk, dearie. Give ’em the gate. And 
I’m with you. After I pay my little visit to Rufus, and 
collect my bill, it’s good night chorus for me. I’ll get a job 
squirting soda, or something. But nix on the gay life of a 
half starved show tramp, an’ that’s what this game has made 
me.” Mable smiled grimly, and shifted the lump of gum in 
her mouth from one jowl to the other. Irene smoothed the 
lines from her silk hose, and glanced at the wrist-watch on 
the dressing table. 

“Must be nearly time,” she said, “for my-.” A knock 

on the door interrupted her. “Miss Irene Dare,” a voice 
called, “time for your act.” 

The orchestra took up her number as she scampered down 
the runway toward the stage, leaving Mable alone in her 
dressing room. Loko stood by the wings and smiled at her, 



166 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


as the stage manager gave her the cue and she danced out 
in a silver spotlight before the crowded hall. A light ap¬ 
plause greeted her. Then, with a clicking of her castanets, 
she began her dance, and the audience hushed and settled 
down to judge the performance. 

While Rufus from his ring-side table nudged Gene with 
his bulky arm and a glowing desire burned in his small eyes, 
and while Loko from the edge of the wings steadied his jet 
gaze on the dancing figure in the spotlight, another vastly 
interested individual stopped dead in his tracks and stared 
dumbfounded with eyes that refused to believe. 

A heaping tray balanced on the palm of his hand, Ralph 
stared and stared and stared until his gaze blurred and the 
bright stage revolved in dim circles and the dancing figure 
in the gay Spanish costume was no more than a staggering 
speck. A mass of conflicting thoughts clouded his mind until 
functioning was out of the question. It couldn’t be! It 
couldn’t be! something kept telling him. And yet as he 
pulled himself together and stared anew, he was certain. 
Yes, there was no mistaking—it was Dot! The eleven-year- 
old child, the pretty little girl that had been so sweet, and 
asked him so many embarrassing questions. Impossible! 
But there she was, dancing in all her splendor! She had 
fooled him, played with his emotions, and lied—but why ? 

In a flash his career as a waiter ended. He was now a 
detective working to solve a vast problem, and from her 
gorgeous appearance, a delightful one, too. Headed for the 
kitchen, a fellow waiter passed him. With a swift move¬ 
ment, Ralph shoved his tray of foodstuffs in the man’s 
fumbling hands. 

“Your grub,” he said. “I brought ’em out to help you. 
Union rule number six: ‘Help your fellow waiter.’ ” 

In an instant he had gone, headed in a winding course 
toward a side wall. Bewildered the waiter looked about him 


Say It With Dreams 


167 


in a helpless manner. Then, mumbling a curse, he started 
for Ralph’s table with the orders. 

Reaching a shadowed position beneath the balcony where 
the brightly hued lights of the gaudy hall were somewhat 
dimmed, Ralph stayed his swift progress and made himself 
as inconspicuous as possible. This was an easy thing to 
do, for practically everyone in the audience watched the 
fawn-like figure that danced the dance of early California, 
under the misleading title, of course—“That Kid From 
Madrid.” Ralph was too deep under the spell of his sudden 
discovery, too amazed, and far too bewildered, to note any 
discrepancies in title or dance. For no apparent reason, 
she had played the role of a child, mislead him, together 
with a coach full of passengers, and he meant to know the 
why and wherefore of it. Bits of their conversation on the 
long ride echoed in his mind. At the time he imagined he 
was running a huge bluff to save his face, that he was 
putting over a false character born of necessity. But right 
at his side had sat a young lady, a beautiful girl, who 
toyed with his emotions unmercifully. Visions of her dis¬ 
play of limbs, of the scene in the dining car where he in¬ 
sisted on cutting her steak, of the candy he bought her, 
and a hundred and one things returned to his mind. Then 
he recalled her questions about marriage, about love, and 
whether he thought she would make a good wife. 

As he looked back it all seemed so humorous. He thought 
her a cute little child—she thought him the mayor of Ben- 
gate. She was a musical comedy dancer—he a substitute 
waiter. That is, he was a waiter. Now he was bent on a 
iSherlock Holmes career—to know the reason for her intrigu¬ 
ing role—and then, too, she was ravishingly pretty, sweet, 
and, well, he wanted to know her. And, furthermore, he 
wanted to laugh with her over their escapade. 

“Say, there, what’s the grand idea?” a gruff question in- 


168 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


terrupted his dreams. From behind, a bull-necked, over¬ 
sized giant had approached. His mammoth hand gripped 
Ralph by the lapel of his uniform dress suit. 

“Yer a waiter, ain’t yuh?” he demanded. “Well, get 
back to the kitchen! What do yuh think we’re givin’ this 
show for? Back to the kitchen, you boob!” He gave 
Ralph a rough jerk. “And make it snappy!” he added. 

In an instant, Ralph was himself. With deliberate fingers 
he loosened the man’s grip from his shoulder. The arm 
towel slipped from his hand and dropped inconspicuously to 
the floor, out of sight. An expression of utter surprise 
swept over his face. 

“Just a moment, sir,” he declared. “You’ve evidently 
made an error. I am not a waiter, and never was, if that is 
what you are trying to convict me of. I am a guest—my 
check will be paid when I leave. Now kindly go about your 
own business before I call the manager!” With that Ralph 
turned his back on the befuddled “bouncer” and strode 
down the aisle toward the stage. Applause shook the hall as 
Irene darted from the wings and took her bow. Ralph shot 
one more glance at her, enough to convince himself that he 
had not been mistaken in her identity—that she was Dot, the 
child of the crowded coach—and then she was gone! 

A throbbing thought possessed his mind—some way he 
must reach her, talk to her. But how? Why, back stage, 
of course. So Ralph threaded his way through the 
jammed hall toward a small door marked exit, confident of 
success. 


Chapter VII 


Breathless and exhausted, Irene entered her dressing room 
and found Mable about to depart. The blonde show girl 
was in the act of adding a few touches to her already thickly 
cosmeticed features. Irene sank on her couch and leaned 
back restfully. 

“Gee, your applause was great, dearie,” Mable declared. 
“I could hear it way up here. Wish I had a number like 
that. But I guess my correct job is sellin’ behind a 
counter, or somethin’ of the sort.” She picked up her hand 
bag and started for the door. “It’s been awfully nice of 
you to let me hide up here in your room,” she continued. 
‘Tve got a nasty job ahead, and if I expect to see Rufus, 
I’d better go down on the stage now. He’ll probably be 
there, as usual, to watch the girls when they leave.” She 
opened the door and stepped out on the narrow runway. 
“Well, so-long, dearie,” she called over her shoulder, “and 
good luck.” 

Irene was alone. Exercising diligent care, she erased 
the powder and paint from her flesh by a scrubbing with 
cold cream, then the mascaro from her turquoise eyes, and 
the rouge from her naturally red lips. Removing her cos¬ 
tume, piece by piece, she laid it away in a small grip. Then 
she took the large Spanish comb from the coils of her 
chestnut hair and, shaking her head, allowed it to curl below 
her ears. She glanced for an instant at her partly clad 
figure in the tall mirror. 

For some unknown reason, a recollection of her humorous 
incident with the young mayor on the train, formed in her 
mind. Undoubtedly her knee length petticoat, her unpainted 
features, and bare shoulders, were remindful of the simple 


170 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


childish dress she had worn that day. He had been an 
awfully likeable chap, she remembered, so nice and kind to 
her. She wondered for a moment if he had regained control 
of his town, or if he was still the ostracized mayor. He had 
looked so funny with his mud-stained clothes and black eye, 
but yet she had to admit that he had been, in their brief 
acquaintance, about everything she could wish a gentleman 
to be. She almost wished she had donned her childish clothes 
again and visited him at the hotel as he had requested; but 
that would have been going a bit too far, she feared. 

A light tap roused her. Throwing a dressing gown about 
her unclothed shoulders, she crossed to the door and 
listened. 

“Who’s there?” she inquired, hoping against hope that it 
was not her employer or his egotistical friend. Naturally 
Irene was unaware of the deep grudge one held for the 
other; very few were. 

“Who’s there?” she repeated, turning the knob slightly, 
her features clouding. 

“It’s I,” a voice answered. “Your friend from Bengate, 
Ralph Fenton. Please, may I see you, Miss Dare?” 

For a moment the unexpected appearance of the youthful 
mayor on the scene stunned Irene. But she quickly re¬ 
covered and gathered her wits together. How she ever 
replied she never afterwards remembered. Somehow 
though, she heard herself speaking. 

“Why, Mr. Fenton!” she exclaimed, leaning against the 
door for support. “This is indeed a surprise. If you’ll wait 
just a minute I’ll be dressed. I’d like awfully much to see 
you again. Will you wait?” 

“If you’ll allow me to come in your room, I’ll promise to 
hide my eyes while you dress. I’ve had a strenuous time 
getting this far, and I’m afraid, Miss Dare, that if any of 
the employees see me, I’ll be put out. And I do want to see 
you.” 


Say It With Dreams 


171 


“It’s strictly against orders to receive guests in the rooms,” 
Irene felt herself gradually slipping, “but I guess it would do 
no harm, Mr. Fenton/’ and then in the next breath: “All 
right, come in.” 

She opened the door, and with a swift step, Ralph entered. 
He closed the barrier after him, then turned and with a 
broad smile on his lips, bowed. 

“I salute," he laughed, “the best little dancer and imitator 
in all the world. Miss Dare, my compliments. Your perfor¬ 
mance on the train was brilliant, to say the least. Not only 
did your little jest completely fool the entire coach, but I, 
your neighbor, was also absolutely deceived.” 

“It was awfully mean of me,” Irene smiled, “to take such 
advantage of you, considering the trouble you had on your 
mind at the time, but I just couldn’t resist the opportunity, 
Mr. Fenton. I hope you’ll forgive me. Do you?” 

“Forgive you,” Ralph echoed, “I think I should be beg¬ 
ging your pardon for not recognizing you as the beautiful 
young lady you are. Had I known, I fear our ride would 
have been less pleasant. I might have been tempted to make 
love to you, and I’m sure that would have ruined everything. 
But I know you are anxious to dress, so don’t mind me. I’ll 
hide my eyes against the wall here.” 

So saying Ralph smiled and faced the wall. Stepping in a 
small closet at the end of the room and pulling the draperies 
about her, Irene quickly donned her street clothes. She had 
barely finished when a loud rap sounded at the door. An 
expression of fear swept over her features. Was it Gene, she 
wondered? Why, oh, why, had she allowed her guest to 
enter ? The situation was embarrassing, if not compro¬ 
mising. What would her foul employer think? He might 
even refuse to pay her salary on the grounds of disreputable 
conduct. 

As the rapping sounded again, this time louder than pre- 


172 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


viously, Ralph came to her rescue. Motioning her to answer 
the summons, he tiptoed silently to the closet and drew the 
draperies about him. Irene took a fresh hold on herself and 
opened the door. Her worst fears were realized, for Gene 
stood in the dimly illuminated runway, his lips curved to a 
repulsive grin, his arms folded across his flat chest. A 
strong odor of stale beer hung heavy in the air about him. 

“Sorry to disturb you, honey,” he said, “but I’m gonna 
pay you off, tonight.” Then he gently but firmly shoved 
Irene back a step, entered, and closed the door behind him. 
“Say, sweetie,” he began, anew, “there’s no use us breakin’ 
up this way. Rufus is a nice feller and he likes you. Now, 
why can’t you and him get along? He’ll treat you like a 
queen, he’s got money an’ you’d have about everything you 
wanted. I’ll star you in the Revue and advertise you like a 
circus. Do me a little favor and reconsider your refusal. 
Won’t you? Now be a sport.” Gene had rehearsed his ar¬ 
gument in advance. He thought it convincing, and actually 
expected Irene to accept. 

“Mr. Suttille,” Irene began, a frown creasing her brow, 
her nerves on edge, “you have made me an offer that is 
impossible, utterly impossible. I have once before refused, 
and I do not intend to change my decision. I hope that is 
final. Mr. Gunning may be a perfectly wonderful gentleman, 
that I don’t doubt, but as I once before said, I’m not accepting 
social engagements. If you’ll pay me my salary, I’ll get my 
things together and leave.” 

Gene shifted uneasily. His gaze rested on the door. 
“Before I do, honey,” he declared, “Rufus wants to have a 
word with you. Maybe he can change your stubborn mind.” 
He turned toward the door. “Rufus,” he called in a loud 
voice, “come on in an’ pay us a little visit.” 

The door swung ajar and the pompous political boss 
stood forth. “Well, well, this is a surprise to get such 


173 


Say It With Dreams 

a hearty welcome/’ he vowed, with an attempt at humor. 
Then he entered and closed the door. “I hope I’m not in¬ 
truding,” he smirked. He, too, like his accomplice, per¬ 
meated the air with a foul odor of bad liquor. 

“If both of you don’t leave, immediately,” it was Irene 
who spoke, “I’ll call for assistance. Now please be gentle¬ 
men and go.” 

“I hear somebody callin’ me,” Gene declared, “guess I’d 
better be going. Night, pals.” He turned and quickly walked 
through the doorway, slamming the barrier behind him. 

Irene faced Rufus. Grinning, he stepped nearer and with 
a quick movement jerked away the lace of her dress from 
over her milk white shoulder. “No need to be ’fraid, 
sweetie,” he said, “I ain’t gonna hurt you.” 

With a scream, Irene turned and fled to the wall nearby 
the draped closet. Rufus followed, his small eyes glowing 
with an insane passion. He reached a moist hand for her, 
and then something occurred. What it was, he never after¬ 
wards remembered. 

Unable to control the desire to intervene any longer, Ralph 
leaped out of the closet and planted a smashing fist against 
the bulging flesh of the intruder’s jaw. Rufus dropped like a 
rock, and lay motionless on the floor. A tiny stream of 
sticky blood oozed from a nasty cut where Ralph’s blow 
had found its mark. He was cold, out for the count. 

“I’d have gladly interfered, sooner,” Ralph declared, as he 
dragged the limp body in the closet and drew the draperies 
about it, “but I didn’t want to cause a rumpus for fear of 
gathering a gang, and we’d never have got out of it then. 
I knew one of ’em would leave, so I just waited till I could 
dispose of the dirty rat that stayed.” 

“It’s wonderful of you, Mr. Fenton,” Irene cried, her voice 
shaken with fear, “and you must know I appreciate it. Why, 
you hardly know me, and you’ve already fought for me.” 


174 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


“No time for thanks, now,” Ralph interposed, “we’ve got 
to beat it, and besides, anybody’d done the same for so 
pretty a young lady as you. But if you really want to repay 
me, call me Ralph as you did on the train. But now we must 
hurry.” 

“From now on it’s Ralph, then,” Irene replied, as she 
hurriedly stuffed away her few possessions in the partly 
packed grip. “And you must call me Dot,” she added, “that’s 
in the bargain.” 

“I knew you’d say that,” he declared, as he snapped 
Irene’s grip, locked her arm in his, and they started for the 
door. “It’s sweet of you. And if you hadn’t, I’d been 
terribly disappointed.” 

Stepping out in the dim runway, Irene led Ralph toward 
the steps that descended to the stage and thence to the 
Casino’s back entrance. As they paused at the top of the 
flight, she threw a backward glance over her shoulder in 
time to see Gene advancing on the run. 

“Hurry!” she cried, “my employer is following us!” 
Without answering, Ralph locked his hand in hers, and 
they ran down the stairs toward the stage door. Reaching 
the barrier Ralph jerked it open and his eyes met those of 
the giant “bouncer” he had evaded earlier in the evening. 

“I’m looking for you,” the burly fellow growled, as he 
stepped forward and blocked the passageway, “and I’m 
gonna take you where you belong.” His huge hand grasped 
Ralph’s coat front. An assistant loomed up behind him. 
“Punch him one for good measure,” the newcomer advised. 
The “bouncer” was about to comply, when from the dress¬ 
ing room runway a screeching voice halted him. 

“Hell with the fellow,” Gene cried, as he descended on 
the run, “get the girl.” 

And then the fight began for sure. With a well aimed 
right-cross, Ralph landed his fist on the “bouncer’s” under- 


•Say It With Dreams 


175 


slung jaw, and as the mammoth fellow staggered back under 
the unexpected impact, he tripped his assistant, which offered 
Ralph opportunity to plant a left-swing on his tumbling op¬ 
ponent’s ear. Then, in the hot tangle that ensued, he man¬ 
aged to clear a passageway for Irene, but before she was 
able to reach the door, Gene arrived and threw her brutally 
to one side. From somewhere in the shadows a tall slender 
figure darted, and two bony hands closed in a vice about the 
proprietor’s oily neck. He sank to the floor, his eyes bulging, 
his face a lavender hue. Then Loko lunged at the nearest of 
Ralph’s opponents, and the “bouncer” dropped with a thud, 
his left eye swollen almost shut. 'Seeing his support 
vanquished, the assistant slid to his knees and begged for 
mercy. Loko towered over him, his jet eyes afire, gurgling 
sounds rumbling in his throat. 

Jumping to her feet from where Gene had thrown her, 
Irene ran to Ralph’s side, stooping on the way to retrieve her 
grip from where it had fallen. Loko in a frenzy of panto- 
mimical gestures beckoned them both to flee, but Ralph 
hesitated, hating to leave him with the trio of beaten thugs, 
whom he noted with a sharp glance, were gradually regain¬ 
ing their spirit. It would be a battle against terrific odds, 
he realized, and it was not man-play to walk out on a friend. 
But when Loko insisted, with plainly understandable 
motions, Ralph reluctantly shoved Irene ahead of him and 
they were presently lost in the curtain of gray fog that hung 
heavy in the chilly night air. 


Chapter VIII 


By the time Gene had regained consciousness, his neck 
bruised by deep finger marks, and the “bouncer” had risen 
to his unsteady feet and wiped the blood from his closed eye, 
while his assistant aided with a damp handkerchief, Loko 
had leaped up the steps to the dressing room runway and 
disappeared. The fighting spirit had vanished from the 
beaten trio, and at Gene’s command his two henchmen limped 
away toward the door that led to the kitchen. Then the pro¬ 
prietor snorted in disgust and mounted the stairs at a 
weakened stride. From the end of the dim runway Mable 
emerged at a swift pace. Seeing Gene, she paused nervously 
against the railing and fumbled with her hand bag. He 
glowered at her with the wrath prompted from his recent 
defeat. She avoided his gaze and started to pass on. 

“What you been doin’ up here ?” he demanded. “Ain’t I 
told you to keep away?” His arm barred her passage. 

“I was just, just getting a few of my clothes I forgot when 
I went to the hospital,” she replied in a wavering voice. “I 
thought they was up here—but I can’t seem to find ’em. 
Guess they’re lost by now.” 

“Sure you ain’t seen Rufus?” he asked. “He’s gonna be 
sore at me if he catches you hangin’ around. I don’t mind 
you, but you’d better steer clear of him.” 

“No, Mr. Suttille,” Mable replied, “I told you the honest 
truth. I ain’t seen him since early tonight. I don’t even 
want to see him; I’m through. Please let me go now, will 
you ?” 

“All right kid—beat it!” 

And Mable lost no time in complying. Before Gene had 
hardly gone a dozen steps down the runway, she had reached 


Say It With Dreams 


177 


the bottom of the steep stairs, and there she hesitated. For 
a moment she casually waited. Then she cast anxious 
glances in each direction, and it was obvious to the eye that 
her nerves were raw and on edge. A noise sounded behind 
a thick stack of discarded scenery. Mable gasped and 
stood back, frightened. 

Loko stepped out from the dark shadows. He smiled at 
her, a cynical smile, brimming with significance. She nodded 
and leaned close to him. He bent over to hear what she 
said. 

“I think so,” she whispered in a tense voice, “but Fm not 
sure; we’d better wait.” 

Again Loko nodded. Then simultaneously they glanced 
directly into each other’s eyes and parted. Mable walked 
toward the door that led to the crowded Casino, while the 
gaunt pantomimist slowly mounted the stairs to the runway. 
His eyes for some unknown reason, suddenly showed red at 
the rims, and his face assumed odd contortions that had no 
apparent connection with his mild actions. At the head of 
the stairs, he paused and glanced on each side in a casual 
manner. Then he walked slowly down the runway and 
presently disappeared in the darkness of the dressing rooms. 

* * * 

When they made their swift departure from the scene 
of the fistic encounter, Irene and Ralph had hurried away 
as quickly as their feet could carry them. Not a taxi 
in sight, they boarded an up-town trolley at the Columbus 
Avenue intersection. And now after a short walk to the 
vicinity of Irene’s hotel, they paused on the curbing op¬ 
posite the edifice, and in the yellow halo of a corner street 
lamp, Irene displayed her gratitude to Ralph for his brilliant 
interception in her behalf. But as a modest young hero, he 
would have none of it. 

“All I ask, Dot,” he declared, “is your friendship. I think 


178 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


you’re great, marvelous, wonderful. And I know we’ll get 
along fine, that is, if you’ll give me the chance.” 

“Well, what ever under the sun gave you the idea I 
wouldn’t gladly welcome your friendship ?” Irene smilingly 
inquired. “After tonight, I could not very well deny such a 
little thing as that. And, if you must know it, I like you, 
anyway. Now, does that satisfy you?” 

“You really like me? Well that makes everything great. 
Now I can telephone you, tomorrow, and perhaps if you’ll 
accept my invitation, we’ll lunch together. Will we?” 

“Surely. Phone me here at the hotel in the morning,” 
Irene replied. Then a frown clouded her brow and she 
added, “Oh, I’m so sorry I’ve forgotten to inquire; but have 
you been able to regain your seat as mayor of Bengate, yet ? 
Really, since that day on the train together, I’ve thought a 
lot about you, and I surely hoped by this time you’d have 
driven away those crooked citizens.” 

Unable to determine on a definite reply, Ralph attempted 
to postpone his answer, when a speeding taxi drew to a 
sudden halt beside them and saved him the embarrassment. 
Mable’s blonde head protruded from a swiftly opened door. 
Her face was ghastly pale, fear stricken. 

“For God’s sake, get in—both of you!” she cried, and 
when Irene and Ralph stared at her in amazement, she added, 
“I’ll explain later, but now, I’m begging you to get in this 
cab!” 

With an exchange of glances, Ralph assisted Irene to the 
interior of the car, and without delay, following Mable’s in¬ 
struction to the chauffeur, they sped down the narrow 
street. 

“I got your address off the call-board back stage,” Mable 
informed Irene in a trembling voice, “and I came as quick 
as I could. I don’t know who did it, but you’re my friend, 
dearie, so I thought I’d warn you; you didn’t do it, I know, 


Say It With Dreams 


179 


but they’re blaming you for murdering him. Rufus Gunning 
is dead ! Stabbed to death !” 

Unable to speak, Irene and Ralph stared at each other in 
blank astonishment. The latter was the first to recover. 
His words came slowly and deliberately. 

“You say, Miss," he addressed Mable, “you say they 
accuse Irene; that they suspect her?” 

“Yes. I heard Gene tell the cops myself. From what he 
said I couldn’t get who’d found the body—but it was found 
in your room, dearie, in the closet, with the knife hid under 
the couch. Gene called the cops from the Chinatown Squad 
the minute he was sure Rufus was dead. I was sitting in 
the main Casino with some of the girls when the word 
reached us. I beat it back stage and got there just as the cops 
did. Gene came right out and accused you, dearie. Said 
you’d had a row with Rufus over somethin’, and that he 
saw you and a strange man running away from your room 
where the body was found. One of his dirty bouncers told 
the same tale. So I got your address and grabbed a cab. I 
don’t think you did it, ’cause you’re too sweet an’ nice. But 
that means nothing to the cops, and they’re after you, dearie, 
and you’ve got to beat it.” 

“It does look bad, Dot,” Ralph said, after a moment 
of silence, “but don’t worry, you’re innocent. You know it 
and so do I, and we’ll prove it to the authorities. There’s 
only one thing to do,” he faced Mable, “have the chauffeur 
drive to the Central Police Station,” he requested. 

“You’re not gonna-” Mable looked bewildered. 

“Absolutely,” Ralph answered. “It’s the only way out.” 
Then as Mable complied, he turned to Irene, who had sat 
silent and calm throughout the entire ordeal. “Now, Dot,” 
he said, “I know I don’t have to ask you to be brave; you’re 
that sort of a girl. But I want you to trust me, have con¬ 
fidence in what I do, and above everything stand by the 



180 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


statements 1 make. I realize you hardly know me, and that 
it’s rash for me to expect you to honor my advice, but please, 
when we get to the Station allow me to talk to the officers. 
Please, Dot, will you ?” 

“Why, Ralph,” Irene instantly replied, “I have confidence 
in you, and I do trust you. Whatever you choose to say 
I’ll stick by. And I know we’ll win out in the end, anyway.” 

“That’s the right spirit, Dot, and before it slips my mind, 
I’m not going to mention my public office, it might result in 
a lot of unpleasant notoriety that may be avoided. I’ll give 
my real name, but that’s all.” 

“I think you’re perfectly right, Ralph. It might ruin your 
career; a sensational mixup such as this horrible affair. Oh, 
why, why, did it have to happen just as it did? You- 

The abrupt stopping of the cab before an edifice of harsh, 
gray stone, interrupted Irene. The door of the taxi opened 
and Ralph assisted her out. Then, simultaneously, they 
faced Mable. 

“Thanks, ever and ever so much,” Irene said, “I’m sure 
it’ll all come out all right, Mable. And when it does, I want 
to see you and really thank you. Good-bye, dear.” 

“You’d do the same for me, dearie,” Mable replied, forc¬ 
ing a smile. 

But for some undetermined reason Ralph failed to display 
his gratification. Instead, he bowed curtly, and led Irene up 
the steps of the Police Headquarters, as the taxi drove speed¬ 
ily away and vanished in a bank of damp mist. 



Chapter IX 


As they had journeyed up-town in the clattering trolley a 
few moments previous, Ralph, for want of a more plausible 
excuse, had explained to Irene that he had been slumming 
with a party of tourists in the Barbary Coast quarter, and 
thus accounted for his appearance in the Pacific Coast Ca¬ 
sino, and also for the evening dress he wore. But now, after 
having been ushered into a small ante-room by a Desk 
Sergeant, following the revelation of their identities and 
their connection with the Midway affair, Irene, under the 
glaring rays of bright lights, for the first time noted the 
strange waiter-like cut of Ralph’s garment. Before she de¬ 
cided to comment, a door in the small room opened and a 
Police Captain entered. At his heels trailed several plain¬ 
clothes detectives and a be-spectacled newspaper reporter. 
Nodding curtly to Irene and Ralph, the Captain motioned 
them to chairs. Then he drew up his own to a small table 
that centered the room, and instructed them to do likewise. 
The detectives remained standing, as did the eager reporter. 

Shifting his gaze from one to the other, the Captain drew 
a sheet of paper from an inner pocket. Then he directly 
faced Irene. “Miss Dare ?” he asked. Irene nodded. “You 
are a dancer employed at the Midway Casino ?” 

“Yes, sir—that is, I was. My engagement ended, tonight.” 

“Were you fired?” 

“Yes, sir. Forced to quit because I refused to comply with 
a demand the proprietor insisted upon.” 

“Just what did he demand?” 

“That I associate with a friend of his.” 

“Who was the friend ?” 

“Mr. Rufus Gunning.” 


182 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


The Captain nodded to one of the detectives who jotted 
down notes on a pocket pad. Then he faced Irene again. 

“Miss Dare,” he said, eyeing her with a firm gaze, “I ap¬ 
preciate your surrender, and so will the prosecution, but it 
is not my place to pass judgment in cases of this kind; 
I can merely act according to the law. I’m sorry, but I’ll 
have to place you under arrest for the murder of Rufus 

Gunning.” 

Irene’s hands clenched and crimson flushed to her cheeks. 
She shot a frightened glance at Ralph and received a com¬ 
forting one in return. Somehow she felt as though she were 
in another realm, as though the horrible affair was a night¬ 
mare, not actually happening, just a frightful dream. Calm¬ 
ing herself, she realized that at this moment a plea of in¬ 
nocence would be futile, for the Police Captain was doing no 
more than his duty, so Irene controlled her tumultuous 
emotions and remained silent. 

The Captain scribbled a few notes, then turned and faced 

Ralph. “What is your name?” he inquired. 

“Ralph Fenton,” came the answer. 

“You’re a friend of Miss Dare’s?” 

“Yes, sir, an old acquaintance. I attended the Casino 
show, tonight, and saw her for the first time in two weeks.” 

“Do you know why Miss Dare murdered Rufus Gunning?” 

“She did not murder him!” There was no doubt in the 
reply. 

“We have ample evidence to convict her, as the case now 
stands, less than an hour following the crime. Revenge, the 
motive—revenge on Gunning for causing her to lose her 
position. The murder occurred in her dressing room. The 
bloody knife was found under her couch. The body in her 
closet. The proprietor of the Casino and one of his trusted 
employees saw Gunning enter her room. The same pair a 
few minutes later heard a commotion on the runway out- 


Say It With Dreams 


183 


side of the dressing rooms, and then they saw Miss Dare 
running toward the stairs that lead to the stage and thence to 
the street. They tried to stop her and several of her friends 
interfered. They suspected something, even then. Were 
you, Mr. Fenton, one of the persons that helped her make 
her escape ?” 

“I most certainly was,” Ralph answered. “When Gunning 
attacked her in her own room at the proprietor’s instigation, 
I interfered in her behalf, and I also helped her escape. I 


“Never mind for now,” the Captain interrupted. “The 
Desk Sergeant will get your name and address, and don’t 
you leave town until you’re notified officially that we’re 
through with you. You’ll be an important witness, but I 
hardly think you’re implicated otherwise. Now you may re¬ 
port to the Sergeant.” He rose and faced Irene. “But you, 
Miss Dare,” he continued, “will have to stay. I’m sorry, but 
the evidence is too strong. The detectives here will take you 
to the Women’s Ward.” 

“Stop!” Ralph suddenly cried, leaping to his feet. “I can’t 
stand to see an innocent person sufifer, Captain. I confess! 
I killed Gunning! He tried to harm Miss Dare and I in¬ 
terfered and murdered him!” 

“You swear you killed him?” demanded the Captain. 
“Under oath ?” 

“I absolutely did. Miss Dare did not even know it. She 
is innocent, and I'm not going to permit her to sufifer. I 
alone am guilty. I submit to arrest!” 

A thrilling sensation swept through Irene. She knew posi¬ 
tively that Ralph was as innocent as herself, and she realized 
he had confessed only to save her from imprisonment until 
the guilty person was discovered. It was noble of him, but 
she couldn’t allow him to condemn himself just to save her 
from a few days in jail at the most, until the murderer, the 



184 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


real murderer was detected and caught. No, she would tell 
the truth, but a single glance from Ralph, a pleading glance, 
bade her remain quiet. So Irene reluctantly held her silence 
against her will. 

Then Ralph requested a moment alone with her, and the 
Captain called his officers aside. 

“Please, Dot,” he said, “please stick by what I’ve said. 
You’re a girl; you can’t go to jail. And it won’t hurt me any 
—I’ve helped you this far. Now please let me stick by my 
confession. It’ll all turn out all right in the end. Be a brave 
girl and let me do the talking. Til get out of this, Dot. Now 
don’t you worry.” 

“Oh, Ralph,” Irene declared, “I can’t allow you to go 
through with this. The evidence points to me, and it’s my 
fault for dragging you into it. Won’t you retract your con¬ 
fession? Please do.” 

“I absolutely will not, Dot,” Ralph replied. “If I did it 
would probably incriminate us both. Now please do as I 
say.” 

“I’ll have to; that is, if you insist. But it does seem so 
unfair, so unjust-” 

“You’ll have to go, now,” the Captain interrupted, calling 
across the room. “You, Miss Dare, will report to the Desk 
Sergeant, in company of Officer Delman. You’ll be called 
for a witness, so keep in touch with Headquarters daily.” 
He motioned to one of the detectives. “Take this man to the 
register,” he commanded, “and book him for the murder of 
Rufus Gunning. Have him assigned to one of the single cells 
for the night.” Then with an official bow to Irene, he 
turned and departed. 

An officer on each side, Ralph shot a comforting smile to 
Irene as they led him out of the room and down a narrow 
stone corridor toward the rows of barred cells. And it was 
not till then that Irene realized she loved him. The thought 



Say It With Dreams 


185 


took her emotions by storm and as though in a trance she 
gave the Desk Sergeant her address and answered his many 
questions. 

All the way to her hotel in a taxi, and long after she 
undressed and climbed in her bed, the realization echoed and 
re-echoed in her mind. A repayment for his brilliant deed 
would be impossible, she realized perfectly. But she loved, 
and perhaps he—who could tell? He had fought for her, 
when he barely knew her; he had suffered condemnation for 
her, less than an hour later; so why not ? It was wonderful 
to think about, anyway, she admitted, even if he didn’t, but 
he surely did. He must! And Irene knew it. 


Chapter X 


Although she attempted every plan conceivable in the week 
that preceded the trial of Ralph Fenton for the murder of 
Rufus Gunning, Irene was unable to aid him in any definite 
manner or form. On the few occasions the authorities per¬ 
mitted her to see him in his cell at the County Jail, she 
begged him and pleaded with him to retract his confession 
and allow her to face the trial. But Ralph would have none 
of it. He knew that unless he stuck to his story, Irene would 
face an almost impenetrable wall of circumstantial evi¬ 
dence. Everything pointed to her as the guilty party and 
only Ralph’s confession, which was plausible enough under 
the circumstances, saved her. 

He absolutely insisted that he had visited Irene at her 
dressing room after the show, and that when Rufus at¬ 
tempted to harm her, he had intervened, stabbing the polit¬ 
ical boss with a steak knife in the fight that ensued. It had 
all occurred while Irene started down the runway for the 
street. Not knowing the extent of Rufus’ wounds, so Ralph 
declared, he had quickly followed her and they had fought 
their way to the street. When informed that Rufus was 
dead and that the evidence pointed to Irene, he saw no other 
honorable way out, so he gave himself up. And all Irene’s 
pleading would not change this confession. It was one or the 
other who must suffer, Ralph realized, and he preferred to 
be the one. 

So it followed that Ralph went on trial for murder. Under 
his continual stare, Irene was forced to corroborate his false 
statements as she took the witness stand, although the very 
thought of him suffering in her behalf, nearly drove her 
insane. As the trial progressed and the prosecution piled 


Say It With Dreams 


187 


up point after point against Ralph, Irene searched near and 
far for Loko, hoping that he might prove a valuable witness 
for the defense. But try as she would, she was unable to 
locate him. The last anyone had seen of him was the night 
of the murder. He had apparently vanished. 

And then, as she sat in the partly filled court room as the 
case drew to a close, Irene knew that she had fought a losing 
battle. In summing up, the prosecuting attorney declared 
that although there was some contradicting evidence, he felt 
positive that the defendant’s confession had been verified to 
an extent which called for conviction, and that Ralph Fen¬ 
ton, without a doubt, had killed Rufus Gunning. 

The Judge pronounced sentence—imprisonment in San 
Quentin Prison for life. And as they led Ralph away a 
moment later, Irene muffled a sobbing scream and fainted— 
to recover an hour later in her hotel room with Mable at her 
side. 

At first, the recollection of the scene in the court room, and 
the sight of the chorus girl, frightened Irene. But gradually 
her mind cleared away the tangled web of thoughts, and she 
was able, with effort, to regain her natural composure. 
Questions were on the tip of her tongue, when the chorus 
girl, realizing her befuddlement enlightened her. 

“Feel better, dearie?” she inquired. “Guess you don't 
know how you got here, do you?” 

“No, I don’t Mable,” Irene replied. “I haven’t the slight¬ 
est idea. The last I remember was seeing the officers leading 
Mr. Fenton out. Then everything seemed to go black.” 

“It must have,” Mable commented. “You fell flat in the 
aisle—completely out. I was sitting in the back of the court¬ 
room during the last couple of hours. I didn't want to be 
seen. This whole business has got on my nerves. I dream of 
Rufus all night, and I keep thinkin’ of him no matter what 
I’m doing. I couldn’t keep away from the last day of the 


188 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


trial, so, as I said, I sneaked into a rear seat. Then, when 
I saw you faint and watched ’em carry you into an ante¬ 
room, I followed; told ’em you was my friend; and they let 
me bring you here. But, dearie, you’d better rest for a 
while till the news kinda blows away. It must be tough to 
have a friend get stuck like that, when, when he ain’t 
guilty.” 

In an instant Irene was all ears. “What makes you believe 
that Mr. Fenton is not guilty, Mable?” she inquired. 

“Aw, dearie. I see through it all. He’s only tryin’ to 
save you,” came the answer. 

“Then you think I’m guilty ? That I killed Rufus ?” 

“Heavens, no! Loko murdered him. Who else could ? 
He’s disappeared, ain’t he? Nobody’s seen him since that 
night, have they? Didn’t he have a case on you? Wasn’t 
he jealous of Rufus? And above everything—he’s a nut, 
crazy as they make ’em. Now, dearie, you’ve got my opinion 
on that little murder. And I believe every word of it. Take 
my dope, Loko’s the guilty bird.” 

“Why—why, I never even imagined it could be he,” 
Irene exclaimed. “But he could have done it at that. On 
second thought, what you say does ring true. I knew he 
would make a good witness, so I’ve tried to find him since 
the first day. But as you say, if he isn’t guilty, why has he 
disappeared? He must know something about it, anyway. 
And Mable, I’m going to find him if it takes a lifetime. Mr. 
Fenton is innocent; I know it absolutely. It’s just as you 
say; he’s afraid they’ll jail me if he doesn’t stick by his 
confession. So he lied like a hero, and now they’ve con¬ 
demned him to prison for life. Oh, it’s horrible, Mable; you 
don’t know how I feel. And I promise you I’ll not rest till 
the real murderer is in his place. I’m determined, and I’ll 
find the guilty person if I die in the attempt! Loko or 
whoever it happens to be!” 


Say It With Dreams 


189 


“I wouldn’t advise you to go too far,” Mable cautioned. 
“Anybody who would commit murder, would do about any¬ 
thing. And if Loko thought you was on his trail, he’d prob¬ 
ably get rid of you as he did Rufus. He’s crazy, out of his 
dome, an’ when a bird gets that way it’s good night for a 
body that fools with ’em. If I was you, I’d scout around a 
bit; but I’d steer clear of Loko. Take it from me, dearie, a 
madman is no plaything. And that dumb clown is sure 
dippy.” 

“I wouldn’t care for myself,” Irene declared, a vision of 
Ralph in her mind, “if I thought I could help Mr. Fenton. 
And Mable, madman or not, if Loko’s guilty I’ll send him 
up. I’ll hunt and hunt till I find him. He must know some¬ 
thing of the horrible affair, even if he isn’t guilty, and now 
that you’ve said what you have, I feel certain.” 

“You’re your own boss, dearie,” Mable commented, rising 
and making ready to depart, “but if it was me, I’d keep away 
from Loko; he’s dangerous, or he wouldn’t have killed 
Rufus.” 

“You’re not leaving so soon?” Irene asked. 

“Yes, dearie. Gotta date with a new sweetie, so I’d better 
be going. See you later.” 

“All right, Mable. And thanks awfully much for bringing 
me home. That’s the second favor I’m indebted to you for, 
and I won’t forget, either. Good-bye, dear.” The door 
closed and Irene was left alone with her thoughts. 

Into her mind there had seeped the preliminary frame¬ 
work of a plan of action that was to follow. She knew 
Ralph had made an unimaginable sacrifice to save her from 
a web of circumstantial evidence, a sacrifice too great for 
words. And she, also knew that never would her mind rest 
at ease until he was free. There remained only one avenue 
of procedure for her to traverse—she must find the guilty 
party. And she would, she vowed to herself, even if it took 
her last penny, her last ounce of energy. 


190 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


The only plausible solution to the murder must lay in the 
vicinity of the Casino, she decided. For it was there it had 
occurred, so it was there the clews must be. The problem 
resolved itself into one question. How to come and go at 
the Midway freely and without hindrance? 

She considered Gene, the sulky proprietor. Throughout 
the trial he had sat as an important witness for the prose¬ 
cution, and his testimony had practically verified Ralph’s 
false confession. He had stated under oath that dinner had 
been served to Miss Irene Dare in her dressing room several 
hours previous to the crime, which quite naturally accounted 
for the steak knife wielded by the slayer, and although Gene, 
Irene distinctly recalled, had at first attempted to insinuate 
that she was guilty, despite Ralph’s plausible confession, he 
had changed his policy as the trial proceeded in favor of 
Ralph’s guilt. Not more than an hour before the Judge pro¬ 
nounced sentence, he had sent her a short note which she 
now recovered from a jacket pocket and reread. 

“Honey” (so it began) : “Sorry I blamed you, but it did 
look bad at first. Now we know who did it, why can’t we 
be friends? Drop down to the Casino and see me. Your 
job is still open, and always will be. 

“Your pal, “Gene.” 

At the time she received it, it repulsed her and she had 
ignored its contents entirely. But now as she read it for the 
second time, she saw between the lines a chance to install 
herself in the vicinity of the crime. Gene had always liked 
her, more or less, that she knew, and only because Rufus 
wanted her himself, had he backed out, that much was ob¬ 
vious. So it was up to her, Irene decided, to take advantage 
of this desire of Gene’s, if she cared to gain Ralph’s release. 
And she most assuredly did. Nothing short of death would 
stop her now. She would go the limit to break the chain of 
evidence that circled the man she loved, and prove his false 
confession a heroic attempt to save her from circumstances. 
In her mind, that thought was paramount. She was, above 
everything, determined. 


Chapter XI 


Gene Suttille sat at the circular table in the den of his 
private quarters, and curled his mouth to a broad snickering 
grin. He was pleased with himself, immensely pleased, 
contented with his position, and utterly satisfied. And on 
top of all that, a desire which lurked in the chambers of his 
vile mind, was on the immediate verge of being satisfied. 
Irene had accepted the terms of his note by telephone a few 
moments previous, and, furthermore, she had consented to 
lunch with him this very day. He knew she would favor 
him in time. “A dame that shows spirit is worth going 
after,” he often repeated. And he gave her credit for her 
rigid stand against Rufus—but himself, well, that was an¬ 
other proposition. Perhaps she wanted him all the while; 
that in attempting to get her for Rufus, he had bungled, 
angered her, and that he had been blind to her preference 
for him. He had sent her a note. She had agreed to 
meet him. Maybe, she did want him. Why not ? He was 
Gene Suttille, wasn’t he? 

Gene fixed his gaze on the dial of the small clock that re¬ 
posed on his desk. It was ten minutes of one—Irene had 
promised to come at one-thirty. There was plenty of time 
to do what he had in his mind—his daily task. So deciding, 
he called the kitchen on a speaking tube that hung from a 
crevice in a side wall. 

‘'Send up the usual order,” he demanded, “an’ be quick 
about it!” Then he dropped the tube and crossed to a bu¬ 
reau in the far corner of the room. From the top drawer 
he procured an ugly automatic, and carefully examined the 
chamber. It was loaded, five steel bullets. He smiled and 
tucked it in his hip pocket, cautious that his coat concealed 
it entirely. 


192 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


A light rap sounded on the outer door which opened on 
the balcony. With a quick glance about the room, he crossed 
to the barrier and opened it. Irene smiled and extended her 
hand. 

“I’m a little early,” she apologized, “but you won’t mind, 
will you, Gene?’' 

“No, no,” Gene replied, a trace of nervousness in his voice, 
“come right in, Irene. Glad to see you.” 

“I was doing some shopping on Grant Avenue and I 
finished earlier than I expected,” Irene explained. “I should 
have phoned, I suppose, but I thought you’d like a surprise.” 

They were seated in the front room, now. Irene, at Gene’s 
suggestion, had removed her hat and gloves. She beamed 
smile after smile on him, and he in return, patted her hand 
caressingly, and apologized with a prepared speech, for his 
rash blunder in suspecting her of murdering Rufus. In 
reply, she laughed it off as an unavoidable error, and request¬ 
ed a glass of wine. Gene immediately popped the cork of a 
pre-war vintage, and was in the act of pouring, when again 
a knock sounded at the outer door. 

A frown corrugated his low forehead as he swung open 
the barrier. A waiter stood in the doorway, a small tray on 
his arm. 

“Your order, Mr. Suttille,” he said. 

For a moment Gene was undeniably disconcerted. Then 
with a nervous gesture he spoke: “Just set it over there in 
the corner,” he commanded, “and take this order for two.” 
Then, forcing a smile, he turned to Irene, who had watched 
the strange transaction with no little interest. “I’ve been on 
a diet,” he explained, pointing to where the waiter had placed 
the tray, “but to celebrate out reunion I’ll break rules. 
We’ll eat together. Order what you want, Irene.” 

Selecting her dishes with delicate care, Irene gave her 
order. And when Gene attempted to do likewise, but failed 


Say It With Dreams 


193 


utterly, the waiter disappeared down the balcony. Closing 
the door, Gene shot a queer glance at the tray of food in 
the corner. Then he forced a grin and joined Irene. 

“Honey,” he declared, taking in her beauty with a sweep¬ 
ing gaze, “you’re prettier than ever. Don’t blame poor old 
Rufus for liking you. He saw your points, same as I do, 
and always have. First time I set eyes on you, I said to 
myself: ‘There’s a kid that’s gonna be a star some day, and 
a big one.’ And now, sweetie, that’s what I’m gonna make 
you—headliner of the Frolic Revue. What do yuh think 
of that? Not so bad, eh?” 

“Oh, that’s just wonderful of you, Gene,” Irene replied 
with a remarkable attempt at seriousness, “if it had been you 
instead of Rufus—well I’d never have left. You should have 
known that, Gene. When it comes to love, I think you’re 
dense.” 'She laughed and sipped her wine. Gene was staring 
slyly at her silk-clad ankles. As she set the glass on the table, 
she accidentally slid up her dress an inch or two. Then, 
when Gene lifted his eyes and deliberately snickered, she 
returned the gaze with a cute wink of her long dark lashes. 

“While we’re waiting,” she suggested, “show me my new 
dressing room. I’d rather have the one at the end of the 
runway, so I’ll be—be handy.” 

“Just as you say, honey,” Gene answered. “I want you 
near me, anyway.” He led the way to the room, nicer by 
far than her former dingy compartment. Once he pinched 
her cheek and made an insinuating remark. In answer, Irene 
forced a smile and laughed it off. Then, when she realized 
she was far from aid in case of an attack, she remarked that 
their lunch was probably waiting, and Gene reluctantly 
complied with the suggestion to return. 

They were hardly seated when the meal was served, and, 
while they ate, Gene kept up a continual lecture on the won¬ 
derful things he was going to give Irene. He promised 


194 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


everything—gowns, charge accounts galore, and even auto¬ 
mobiles. Irene echoed his words with every mode of grati¬ 
tude she could command. Then, just as they finished eating, 
and Gene was slyly patting her hand in the palm of his own, 
a very startling sound suddenly filled the room. It was 
not, so Irene thought, unlike the gurgle of a deep, under¬ 
ground pool. Faint, far ofif, it came, and seemed, somehow, 
familiar to her. But yet she was unable to place it. Gen'e’s 
face strangely assumed a pale, frightened hue. Then, realiz¬ 
ing Irene had noticed, he quickly forced a smile and started 
a loud record on a phonograph that stood nearby. His 
fingers quivered as he faced her again. 

“Water pipes are leakin’ in the basement,” he said. “Must 
have ’em fixed; can’t stand that noise.” 

And then in an instant Irene knew. It was vague, the 
realization, but there was no mistaking. That uncanny 
gurgle could come only from the throat of Loko. But where 
was he? And why? 

Gene had again seated himself. He was trembling from 
head to foot, but made a fighting attempt at control. Irene 
glanced away, lest she betray her own emotions. Then an 
idea struck her. 

t 

“Gene,” she said with a pretty smile, “I guess I’d better 
be going now. I promised to meet one of the girls, but 
don’t fear, old dear, I’ll be back, tonight. After what you’re 
going to do for me, I’d be a fool to stay away.” 

“All right, honey,” Gene replied, undeniably pleased with 
her departure, “see you before the show. And then after¬ 
wards we’ll have dinner up here, eh?” 

“Just as you say, Gene. You're my boss from now on.” 

“Well, if I’m your daddy, aren’t you gonna slip me a kiss 
before you go? Sure, you are, honey—that’s a girlie.” 

It was probably the most repulsive moment of Irene’s life, 
but she took it bravely, pressing her warm lips against his 


Say It With Dreams 


195 


odorous mouth and smiling to prove she liked it. Then with 
a cute little wink, she waved him a farewell and started 
toward her new dressing room, a definite plan in mind. 

One of the Filipino kitchen boys emerged from the steps 
that descended to the stage. Irene motioned to him. When 
he reached her side, she handed him a silver quarter. 

“Mr. Suttille is in his room,” she said. “Tell him that a 
lady wants to see him right away. IT1 wait at the stage 
door for him. Now hurry.” 

The boy nodded and started toward the balcony. Positive 
that she was unwatched, Irene slipped in her new dressing 
room and paused by the partly open door. Presently ap¬ 
proaching footsteps became audible. Gene passed swiftly 
by the door, headed for the stage. When he was out of sight, 
Irene ran quickly down the hallway to his room; found the 
door unlocked, and entered. The phonograph was still 
playing. The gurgling sound had ceased. 

Hurriedly crossing the front room to the den, Irene hid 
herself behind a Japanese screen that stood next to the 
bureau. Almost afraid to breathe, she pulled it back against 
her and assumed a tense position. She did not have 
long to wait, for presently the outer door slammed, and she 
heard Gene cursing in a low monotone. Then he entered 
the back room, and she was able to view him through a small 
hole in the carved design that decorated the screen. 

“Now for you!” he growled, and threw a staring glance 
toward a spot on the floor where the carpet was threadbare. 
“Pll learn you to make a noise, and ruin a good start, you 
crazy loon.” 

With that he flung off his coat, jerked the ugly automatic 
from his hip pocket, and started for the front room. When 
he returned almost instantly, the small tray of food was on 
his arm. 

“I shouldn’t feed yuh for that damn noise. But, by God, 
you get on my nerves when I don’t,” he snarled. 


196 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


Then, setting the tray on the table, and fingering his auto¬ 
matic, he pulled back the carpet from a corner of the floor. 
A padlocked trap-door loomed into view. With trembling 
fingers he swiftly unlocked the latch, and jerked open the 
wooden square. As he did, he leaped to one side. The gur¬ 
gling rumble sounded deep down in the dark pit. Gene 
laughed hoarsely and picked up the tray from the table. 

“Take that an’ love it!” he cried, as he spilled the contents 
of the tray down the black opening, “you’re damn lucky, you 
are. I’ve a good mind to starve yuh from now on. You 
dumb lummox, you!” Then again he laughed. The dull 
rumble was his answer. 

“Don’t you wish you could get me!” he snickered, “but 
you never will. You’ll rot to dust before you see light again. 
Take it from me.” Cursing, he kicked the trap-door shut and 
clamped on the lock. As he rolled back the carpet, he laid 
the automatic on the circular table. With a wild leap, Irene 
knocked over the screen, and grasped it before Gene even 
comprehended the situation. 

“Put up your hands, or I’ll shoot!” she cried, aiming di¬ 
rectly at his head. “And stay where you are. Stay there 
or I’ll pull the trigger!” It was obvious that she meant just 
what she said. Gene reluctantly lifted his hands in obe¬ 
dience, his face assuming a mean brooding expression. His 
teeth gnawed at his lips, his pale eyes narrowed between 
their rims. 

“So this is your little game,” he snarled. “Well, how much 
do you want to keep still? Name your price.” 

“I’ll give you one minute to unlock that trap-door. If you 
refuse, I shoot,” Irene replied, her expression one of firm un¬ 
wavering determination. “Hurry up—the quicker you com¬ 
ply the better.” 

Gene laughed at her demand. “Quit the kidding,” he sug¬ 
gested, “that gat’s unloaded. Not a shell in it.” 


Say It With Dreams 


197 


“All right,” came the reply, “Til aim at you and shoot.” 

“Stop! For God’s sake, stop !” Gene screamed in horror. 
“I’ll open it. Give me a chance, will yuh—give me time!” 

The key fumbled in his fingers. Then with a click the 
lock finally sprung and uncoupled. With a shudder, he 
shrank back on his knees, quivering with fear. Icy drops of 
sweat beaded his forehead. 

“Open it!” Irene demanded, “or I’ll make good my threat.” 

Gradually Gene pulled back the thick trap from the square 
of darkness. The gurgling noise again became audible. 
Gene’s eyes blurred and the color vanished from his cheeks. 

“God!” he cried, “don’t let him get out! He’s crazy! 
Wild! He’ll kill us both!” 

But Irene evidently knew better. Stepping nearer to the 
pit of blackness, she shoved the automatic close to Gene’s 
frightened face. 

“Let down the ladder,” she commanded, “or whatever it 
is you use. Be quick!’’ Her finger drew back on the trig¬ 
ger. Gene rose slowly to his feet and crossed to the bureau. 

“Stop!” Irene called after him, “I’ve changed my mind; 
tell me where it is.” 

Gene turned and faced her. “In the bottom drawer,” he 
said. “I’ll get it.” 

“Never mind. Stay where you are,” came the refusal. 

Irene quickly crossed to the bureau and slid open the in¬ 
dicated drawer. A long knotted coil of thick rope lay in view. 
With a single jerk she removed it, her eyes not leaving Gene 
for an instant. 

“Where do you fasten it?” she demanded. 

“To that hook on the edge of the hole,” he replied after a 
pause. “But I’m warning you—that madman will kill us 
both!” 

Unheeding, Irene tossed the coil of rope near the dark hole. 
And then, as she swiftly bent to fasten it, Gene, with a rapid 


198 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


movement, unseen by her, picked up a small tobacco can 
from the table and quickly threw it behind him. It lit on 
the floor in the corner of the room with a clattering jingle. 

Startled, Irene shifted her gaze to the floor for a brief 
moment, and that was precisely what Gene desired. With 
a remarkable leap he knocked the automatic from her hand, 
and, before she could rise, snatched it from the floor, and 
stood over her, a relieved smile playing upon the lines of his 
face. 

“Purty clever dame,” he growled, “but not quite clever 
enough. Thought you could grab me with the goods, didja? 
Well, we’ll see who’s king now, see who’s holdin’ the meat.” 

Irene rose to her feet in silence. 

Gene slipped the end of the rope over the hook and drop¬ 
ped down the knotted coil. A grin swept over his features. 

“Climb down!” he demanded, “climb down before I shove 
you. You will fool with me, will yuh? I guess you’ll pay.” 

Reluctantly Irene lowered herself over the edge of the 
black pit. The gurgling rumble sounded louder than pre¬ 
viously ; it grew in volume and swelled to a mighty roar. It 
was all Irene could do to refrain from collapsing. It had all 
happened so swiftly, so abruptly, she had barely time to 
think. But the knowledge that she was being forced into a 
black pit with an evident madman, weakened her resistance, 
until she thought she would faint. Gene’s growling voice 
roused her. 

“Get down!” he snarled, shoving the automatic in her face, 
“or I’ll shove yuh. An’ it’s no little drop—ten feet after 
yuh get to the end of the rope. But I guess your friend, 
Loko, will catch you. Now move!” 

The revolver prodded Irene in the center of her back. 
She began to lower herself, her hands gripped tightly about 
the rope. The moaning gurgle seemed to be drawing nearer 
with each instant. And then, with only her head remaining 


Say It With Dreams 


199 


above the floor level, the clatter of running feet suddenly 
sounded on the balcony, and was followed almost instantly 
by a shattering of the door in the front room. 

Before Gene had time to either shoot, flee, or in fact think, 
the door burst off its hinges and half a dozen uniformed 
policemen dashed into the room. The Captain who im¬ 
prisoned Ralph and released Irene that night at the Police 
Station led them, his revolver drawn. While in the back¬ 
ground Mable followed, tears dimming her eyes. 

“Stick ’em up!” the Captain commanded, “and hand over 
that gat! All right, Jim,” he added, “tak£ his revolver and 
search him. You,” he indicated another officer, “help Miss 
Dare out of that hole.” 

And thus in a brief moment the rescue was completed. 
Gene surrendered his automatic without a murmur, and when 
the handcuffs were snapped about his wrist, he offered not 
the slightest resistance. With tender hands, Irene was lifted 
from the edge of the pit where she hung, and the moment 
she reached her feet, Mable ran to her side. 

“Dearie,” she sobbed, tears clouding her eyes and trickling 
tiny streams of mascaro across her heavily rouged cheeks, “I 
couldn’t lie any longer, I just couldn’t. It was driving me 
crazy, so I told the cops everything. You see, dearie, Loko 
and I saw Gene stab Rufus after you and Mr. Fenton ran 
out of the room. They had a scrap. Gene tried to bribe Loko 
to forget what he saw. Loko refused, so Gene drew a gun 
on him and knocked him into the hole. He had to almost 
kill him with a black-jack first. Then he got me, and said 
he’d do the same with me if I told what I had seen. He of¬ 
fered me everything I wanted—money, clothes, the life of a 
queen, and I was fool enough to accept. And, besides, I 
was afraid of him. That night when I came in the cab 
and warned you and Mr. Fenton that they suspected you, I 
did it ’cause my conscience hurt me. Since then I’ve nearly 


200 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


gone mad, realizing that you were sufferin’, and that your 
sweetie was in prison. Gene forced me to tell you I thought 
Loko was guilty. He thought it would keep you from sus¬ 
pecting him. So I did, dearie, but God, how I hated to! I 
was going dippy, bit by bit. Dreams at night; fear of Gene 
in the day. Then when I was backstage an hour ago and saw 
you enter Gene’s room, I nearly passed out. I knew what a 
filthy rat he was, and I hated to imagine what he’d do to 
you. My conscience burned me up—I couldn’t stand it. So 
I grabbed a taxi and beat it for Central Station. I told my 
story to the Chief—left out nothin’—and when I said I could 
prove my story by a prisoner held here in the Casino, he gave 
me the gang of cops and we came on the fly. Gee, dearie, I 
know you’ll never forgive me for what I’ve done, but 
I was scared of Gene. He’s a bad egg—killing Rufus, keep¬ 
ing Loko in a dungeon. There was no tellin’ what he 
would do to me! But thank the Lord, dearie, I had sense 
enough to run for the cops when I saw he had you. If he’d 
have got you, I’d have gone crazy for sure. I’m sorry, 
dearie, sorry as I can be.” 

‘‘You’ve nothing in the world to be sorry for, Mable,” 
Irene instantly replied. “You did just what anybody would 
have done under the terrible circumstances. And by telling 
the police the truth and saving me from a horrible fate, 
you’ve redeemed yourself entirely. Now you've been just 
wonderful, Mable, so stop crying, dear, and everything’ll be 
all right.” 

While Irene marveled at Mable’s confession, and Gene 
sulked between two burly officers, the Captain discovered 
an extra length of rope hidden in a bureau drawer. This 
was fastened to the knotted coil and lowered in the black 
pit. All the while Loko’s gurgling voice had been plainly 
audible, and now as the rope was drawn slowly out of the 
dungeon, the voice continued incessantly in an unintelligible 


Say It With Dreams 


201 


monotone. Finally with one last heave by the officers, 
Loko’s head and gaunt face appeared at the square opening. 
With a mighty leap he was out. Rumbling a roar of rage he 
tore at Gene, who shrank back terrified against the wall. 
And it was all the policemen could do to hold him from the 
guilty proprietor. Finally he calmed and faced the Captain. 

Digging his lean fingers far down in his bosom, he drew 
forth a tan kid glove. It was spattered with blood and 
marked with the initials “G. S.” Then Loko displayed the 
manner in which Gene had slipped on the glove and then 
picked up the knife from the tray of dishes. With three 
thrusts he described the murder, and then, his convicting 
story told, the corroboration of Mable’s confession complete, 
Loko assumed a grotesque expression and shook from head 
to foot with a peal of strange laughter. He had pleased 
Irene, and he was happy. 

A hurried search through Gene's clothes closet revealed 
the glove that matched the one Loko had displayed with the 
blood spots. The evidence was complete. And Gene prac¬ 
tically admitted his conviction with an ugly sneer. 

As the policemen led him out, and Irene and Mable fol¬ 
lowed, with Loko and the Captain bringing up the rear, a 
smile, remarkable for its gloriousness, swept over Irene’s 
countenance. It was a smile of smiles, of complete happi¬ 
ness. 

Ralph, the one man in the world for her, had been rescued, 
and Irene had never previously been so happy in all her life. 
To realize that it all had occurred in less than forty-eight 
hours after his conviction was almost incredible. It seemed 
utterly impossible, vague, and unreasonable. But yet, just a 
few steps ahead was the real murderer, his wrists bound by 
links of steel, officers on each side, and at last Irene was 
content to be herself once again. With a sigh of relief, she 
gave herself up to the alluring, the thrilling thought of 
seeing the man she loved. 


Chapter XII 


Naturally, to cover their own error, the authorities repri¬ 
manded the confessed murderer to an extent that almost 
verged on a jail sentence for perjury. But the newspapers, 
who made a sensational story of Ralph’s display of devotion, 
came to his rescue by roasting the circumstantial evidence 
which would have convicted Irene, had she stood trial. In 
less than a week after Ralph was released, Gene began his 
life-long sojourn behind the gray walls of San Quentin 
Prison. 

It was a tender scene, the reunion of Irene and Ralph, 
pathetic almost. She waited outside the Central Station in a 
taxi for him, tears dimming her turquoise eyes and a strange 
little throb tugging at her heart. Presently he emerged and 
with a single glance, located her. His face beamed with 
smiles as he advanced, his lips gnawed red to suppress the 
tears that were surging within him, and then he leaped in 
the cab beside her, and bade the chauffeur be off. 

With a sigh of contentment, Irene sank in his embrace, 
and Ralph was the happiest mortal in all the world. Sud¬ 
denly everything had turned to gold for him. There was 
no such animal as sorrow. He was, as the saying goes, 
born anew. Between them no words were necessary. Ralph 
had proven beyond a single doubt his devotion, and Irene, in 
her winning fight to gain his release, had done the same. 
But suddenly a cloud marred Ralph’s serene horizon. There 
yet remained one dark blotch on his character. With cau¬ 
tion he avoided it until they were alone and away from the 
rest of the world. Then he spoke. 

“Irene, darling,” his words came slowly and deliberately, 
“I’ve a confession to make, dear, a terrible confession. I’m 


Say It With Dreams 


203 


not what you think I am. I’m no mayor of Bengate, or any¬ 
where else. I’m just a bluffer, a four-flusher. All I do is say 
things with dreams. Fve been fired from more jobs than 
any man alive. I haven’t a profession, a trade; I haven’t 
anything but worthless dreams. That’s my worst habit— 
dreams. When you saw me ostracized from that village, it 
was because I sold them a fake product. My story about 
being a mayor was just a lie, a dirty lie, and that’s all I am, 
a liar. I was working as a substitute waiter at the Midway 
when I saw you. Thanks to luck, it was only for the night, 
and they failed to recognize at the trial my genuine con¬ 
nection with the Casino. To have you know I had lied to 
you, without the confession coming from my own lips, would 
have hurt me, hurt me deeply. I’m telling you the truth now, 
Irene, because I love you. Love you more than I knew a man 
could love a woman. More than any man ever loved any 
woman. And I don’t ask your forgiveness, darling. All I 
want is a chance, just a single chance to make good, to show 
you what I am beneath the surface. Will you give it to me, 
Irene? Will you?” 

“Yes, Ralph,” Irene replied after a pause. “You’ve told 
me you love me, that you care for me, and that is all I ask. 
I have faith in you, no matter how you say you’ve bluffed 
or what you’ve done. I love you, and if you love me as 
you say, you will make good for me, some day. Nothing 
could stop you, Ralph, you’re that sort of a—a gentleman.” 

“You’re wonderful, Irene, wonderful. After the confi¬ 
dence you’ve displayed in me, I’ll fight life, and I’ll lick life 
and make you proud of me. Somewhere I always said there 
is something I can do—I’ve never known just what. But 
I’m absolutely certain that there is some position where I’ll 
tower above the throng. And, darling, I’m going to find 
just what that something is. Sounds funny, that philosophy, 
but Irene, I believe it. And, dear, there is a saying that says 


204 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


if you believe it, it’s so. It’s a big question I’m about to 
ask you Irene, a great trust. And if you refuse my heart 
will break, but it’s the only real way out, and I’ll stand it 
somehow.” 

Ralph paused to take Irene’s hand in the palm of his own. 
She gave him a tiny squeeze and forced a smile. 

“What is it, Ralph,” she inquired. 

“Will you wait, Irene? Will you wait one year for me? 
Give me twelve months to make good ? Allow me to claim 
you as my wife when I return? I’m asking a lot, I realize, 
but it’s impossible for me to ask you to have me as I am— 
a worthless bluffer. I’ll win out, Irene, and I’ll return for 
you, and you’ll be proud of me. With you as my goal, I 
can’t fail.” 

For a long while Irene did not answer. A stray tear 
lurked in her eye. Then, brushing it away, she spoke: 
“Ralph,” she said, “I’ll wait. I have confidence in you, 
and I trust you. You're a gentleman, and I won’t wait in 
vain. Now go, dear, and don’t send for me till you’ve made 
your mark. I'm through with the theatrical game, forever. 
I’m cured. It’s a quiet, peaceful life at home for me, from 
now on. So Ralph, when the time comes, address me in 
care of Mrs. Celia Dare, my aunt, at Oakdale, California. 
Kiss me, dear, and then say good-bye.” 


Chapter XIII 


It was a bright, sunny afternoon nearly twelve months 
from the date of Ralph’s release from the authorities, when 
a messenger boy delivered a telegram to Irene Dare at her 
Aunt Celia’s residence in Oakdale. With trembling fingers 
she tore open the yellow envelope and read the message. 
“Meet me San Francisco Railroad Terminal,” it requested, 
“twelve o’clock day after tomorrow. Ralph.” 

So Irene complied, and thus they met again. And from 
the manner in which they greeted each other, it was quite 
apparent that their affections had not diminished one single 
bit. 

Even after they boarded an Eastbound train, Ralph held 
a mysterious silence regarding his success, and Irene knew 
there was a surprise in store for her. But what, she was 
unable to guess. 

When they were snuggled closely to each other, as the 
train rambled on, and were as comfortable and contented as 
they could possibly be, but the conductor, in quest of tickets, 
came along and ruined it all. For a moment he stared at 
them, and then a recognition came to all three. He was the 
same conductor that had accepted Irene’s half-fare ticket and 
also Ralph’s counterfeit character as the Mayor of Bengate. 

“Well, well,” he declared in greeting, “glad to see you 
again, Mr. Mayor. How’s that unruly town of yours getting 
along?” Apparently he did not recognize Irene. 

For a moment Ralph was embarrassed. Then he managed 
to reply, winking at Irene as he did so. 

“Fine!” he exclaimed, “everything’s just wonderful. All 
the bum leading citizens kicked out—and peace reigns.” 

“Pleased to hear it. I knew you’d show ’em. I sized you 


206 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


up in a minute.” Then he punched the tickets Ralph handed 
him, and was about to pass on when he glanced down at 
Irene. 

“Well, I’ll be dogged!” he declared, “if it ain't that little 
child who rode beside you that night. My, but you've grown ! 
Can’t hardly believe it, but then I’m getting old, and time 
passes swiftly these days. Well, good luck to you both.” He 
smiled and continued down the aisle. « 

Irene shot Ralph a glance and grinned, and, as he snuggled 
closer, he did the same, but his was far deeper. Behind it 
there lurked a meaning she knew nothing whatever about. 
But it was presently brought to light, and, furthermore, to 
her rapturous delight. 

With a chugging moan the train drew to a halt before a 
station that was strangely familiar to Irene. On the brick 
platform a throng of not less than two hundred people were 
massed in holiday array. They cheered and yelled and many 
of them held banners and flags. The loud strains of a brass 
band floated on the air. 

“Here’s where we get off, dear,” Ralph said. “And re¬ 
member, darling, this is BENGATE, THE TOWN THEY 
RAN ME OUT OF.” 

As Ralph assisted her down the steps to the platform, amid 
cheers and greetings and strains from the village band, Irene 
found her astonished gaze riveted on the nearest banner. In 
gay colors and bold letters, it read : 

For a Bigger, Better and Prosperous 
BENGATE 
Vote For 

RALPH FENTON 
for 

MAYOR 


Say It With Dreams 


207 


The man who stung us with a bum product! 

The man who made good our loss! 

And the man who came back and made us 
what we are, today! 

Our leading citizen—Ralph Fenton! 

Irene looked at Ralph, and Ralph looked at Irene. “Why, 
Ralph!” she exclaimed. “You’ve really said it with dreams, 
and this time you’ve said it clearly—you’ve won!” And 
then they did just as two lovers always do, regardless of 
time or place. It was the sweetest kiss in Ralph’s life, and 
Irene will never forget the immeasurable thrill of it as long 
as she lives. 

P. !S.—When in ’Frisco, drop in at Mable’s Coffee House 
on Market Street and try a cup of the famous Java the 
blonde proprietress serves—it’s great. And the next time M. 
D’Motriea is billed at your local Orpheum, don’t fail to 
behold Loko in his famous pantomime dance. 



THE FORGOTTEN CITY 































THE FORGOTTEN CITY 


Chapter I 

A glance at the New York City telephone directory will 
reveal the commonplace fact that there are listed two 
hundred and fifteen persons who answer to the name of 
Meredyth. But if you inquire or mention the name to a 
genuine Bronx to Battery New Yorker, there will invariably 
come to his mind the vision of one definite individual. 
Charles Christopher Meredyth is to the average citizen of 
Gotham, the pinnacle of all financial desires and aspirations. 
President of the Consolidated American Railways, his chief 
interest, and controlling stockholder in a score of lesser cor¬ 
porations whose operating boundaries are international, has 
literally gilded his name with gold and placed him on a 
lofty throne in the world of dollars and cents, rarely equaled 
since the creation of a Bradstreet rating. It is said that once 
when a broker inquired regarding the value of a certain stock, 
that Charles Christopher Meredyth replied with a bored 
yawn and within ten minutes that certain stock had dropped 
almost to oblivion. Such was his immeasurable power. 

Contradicting his immense wealth and infinitely vast suc¬ 
cess, the sixty-fifth birthday of this genius of finance found 
him weary of mind and sick at heart. Lavished with the 
luxuries of fortune, his physical self basked serenely in the 
atmosphere of comfort, but the thoughts of Charles Chris¬ 
topher Meredyth traversed a quite opposite channel. 

Into his life, his very existence, there had been gradually 
transmuted from a seed of grief, an ugly thorn. In the 
beginning he had magnanimously grinned at the frivolous 
escapades of his son, Charles Christopher Meredyth, Jr., 



212 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


and branded them collectively as the youthful pranks 
of a modern boy. But when the years passed swiftly 
and the college days of his heir were mercifully over, and 
“Gallop” Meredyth, as the pampered son was known to 
Broadway and the scandal columns of Manhattan news¬ 
papers, failed to call a halt on his campaign of reck¬ 
less dissipation, which was a public topic for snickering con¬ 
versation and had already been exaggerated to preposterous 
proportions, the senior Meredyth quite naturally became 
seriously disturbed. 

At a conference between father and son which reached 
far into the night, promises were exacted and forgotten 
within the period of a single month. For a brief time the 
youth gave up his questionable companions and the gay cafe 
life which had become his habit, but the scenes were too 
dangerously close at hand and the incidents too delightfully 
clear in his memory, so it eventually occurred that “Gallop” 
Meredyth forsook the idealistic notions of his father and 
returned with a mighty splurge to his former career of 
sensational extravagance. 

The news did not reach the ears of the corporation mag¬ 
nate until the morning of his sixty-fifth birthday when he 
entered as usual the chambers of his luxurious down¬ 
town offices, seated himself in the swivel chair at the 
head of the long mahogany desk, received the early edition 
of a daily paper his secretary presented, and read with sub¬ 
dued emotions the disgraceful lines of a half column of ripe 
scandal. 

Two hours later his secretary, Whitcliffe Dryden, re¬ 
turned from a special mission and announced himself at 
the portals of the private chamber. 

“Sir,” he said, bowing curtly, “I have visited the Union 
Trust Bank and the club residence of Mr. Meredyth, Jr. 
Here are the various reports you requested.” He advanced 


The Forgotten City 


213 


and solemnly presented a stack of official appearing docu¬ 
ments. “And in the foyer is seated your son.” 

“You will show him here, immediately,” came the delib¬ 
erate reply in a calm tone. “And say to those who call, 
that I am not in.” 

Presently the revolving doors at the end of the chamber 
abruptly twisted open and into the archway frame there 
posed for a brief moment the immaculate figure of a young 
man with intensely blue eyes and hair the shade of chest¬ 
nut. A sheepish grin curved his lips and his cheeks were 
flushed to an embarrassing pink. 

“Morning, dad,” he said tersely, advancing toward the 
figure that was apparently unaware of his presence. “Your 
man Dryden said you wanted me this minute. Anything 
important? I’ve got a date for breakfast at the Ritz, and 
I’d hate like the deuce to disappoint her.” 

“IPs unfortunate, son,” the magnate declared without 
lifting his eyes from the polished surface of the table, “but 
you had best telephone and postpone your engagement in¬ 
definitely. It will be impossible under the circumstances 
for you to execute it.” 

“Oh, now, dad—that’s a terrible blow! Why, she’s one 
of the most beautiful show-girls in New York. You 
wouldn’t want me to give her the air in such a cold-blooded 
way, would you? Who can tell?—she might be my wife 
some day. That is, if she’s sure I'm the heir to your 
millions.” It was a brilliant but unsuccessful attempt to 
laugh it ofif. 

“The telephone is here, son,” the father indicated a nearby 
stand with a slight shifting of his eyes. “You will oblige 
me for once in a year—and use it.” 

A period of hushed uncertainty, then reluctantly the 
youth complied. Calling a Columbus number he was eventu¬ 
ally connected with a fashionable apartment which over- 


214 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


looked Central Park from a delightful corner in the Seven¬ 
ties. An anxious frown clouded his brow as he waited im¬ 
patiently for a reply. Finally, after much finger nail drum¬ 
ming on the stand, a feminine voice responded. 

“Hello, there! This is Gallop Meredyth speaking,” he 
said. “Is Miss Delta in?” 

A pause, then: “Gone to the Ritz for breakfast with 
me, you say? Oh, I’m sorry, but never mind, I’ll catch her 
there. Good-bye.” 

Clicking the receiver on the hook, he turned and cast a 
sharp glance at his father. Charles Christopher Meredyth 
had listened to the brief conversation with cool, composed 
features. Brushing an unruly lock of silver streaked hair 
from his broad expanse of forehead, he set his thin lips in 
a determined line and waited sedately for his son’s protest. 
It was not long in coming, for the bubbling pot of youth 
was evidently upset. 

“She’s the best little scout in all America,” he declared, 
with exaggerated gusto, procuring his hat from the desk 
where he had tossed it upon arriving. “And she’s not going 
to be kept waiting by me. Really, I’m sorry about this dad, 
but a gentleman, you know, never disappoints a lady. So 
long—see you later.” 

Without word or gesture, the senior Meredyth began a 
deliberate examination of the stack of official appearing 
documents his secretary had so recently delivered. The 
youth hesitated for a moment, obviously undecided, then 
he turned and started at a rapid pace for the revolving doors 
at the end of the paneled room. He had gone but half the 
short distance when they swung wide on their brass hinges, 
and permitted two rather brutal appearing individuals to 
step briskly in upon the thick Oriental rugs that carpeted the 
chamber. 

“We’re lookin’ for young Gallop Meredyth,” the more 


The Forgotten City 


215 


aggressive of the pair harshly asserted, simultaneously jerk¬ 
ing back the lapel of his serge jacket and displaying a silver 
police badge. “And I guess we’ve found him.” 

Amazed, the youth reluctantly retreated to his father and 
stood, tense and rigid, by the great swivel chair. Presently, 
Charles Christopher Meredyth set his documents aside, rose 
to his full height and faced the detectives. 

“Gentlemen,’’ he said, “just what does this mean—or 
rather, what is the charge against my son?” 

“Manslaughter!” came the answer in a gruff voice. “And 
damn near cold blooded murder, Mr. Meredyth—that’s what 
I’d call it.” 

“Incredible! Do you mean to say the fellow I punched 
last night died?” This came slowly, word by word, from 
lips that trembled. Beads of icy sweat formed on the youth’s 
brow. Then he added: “That drunken cab driver—is, is 
dead ?” 

“Cashed in this mornin’ at the Receiving Hospital,” the 
aggressive officer declared. “Concussion of the brain. His 
last words named you, Gallop Meredyth, as smacking him. 
I guess you’re in for it, kid.” His lips curled beneath a 
defiant scowl. 

A moment of silence, then: “Gentlemen, may I have a 
talk with my son before you take him ? This is very serious, 
I realize.” It was Charles Christopher Meredyth who spoke. 

“Sure, Mr. Meredyth,” the detective replied. “You’re 
jake with us, but we’ll have to put the cuffs on him, first. 
You, Lens,” he nodded to his aide who stood at one side, 
“stitch him up.” 

Handcuffing the youth with links of steel, the obliging 
officers helped themselves to a generous assortment of im¬ 
ported cigars that reposed in a chest on the magnate’s desk. 
Then they produced the regulation yawn in unison and dis¬ 
appeared behind the stained glass walls of an adjoining 
ante-room. 


216 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


Deft alone, father faced son. The youth sunk listlessly 
in the upholstered recesses of a deep chair. His head 
drooped. His eyes blurred in watery sockets and fixed 
themselves trance-like on the circles of steel. Spirit had 
fallen before overwhelming depression. 

The father was the first to speak. Taking the morning 
newspaper in hand, he turned to the front page and riveted 
his eyes on a definite column. 

“Son,” he said, “now is a difficult occasion to discuss 
this—nevertheless, you will listen.” Then, weighing his 
words, he read : “ 'Millionaire’s son in cafe scandal. Gallop 
Meredyth, son of the President of the Consolidated Ameri¬ 
can Railways, was the feature in a drunken orgy last night 
at the Cobra Cafe in Greenwich Village. Acting in consort 
with Miss Lola Delta, chorus girl in the Midnight Revue, 
he was the outstanding personality of the risque affair. 
Never before has the Village witnessed so brazen a 
splurge. Riotous merriment continued at a wild pace until 
early morning, when young Meredyth engaged in a fistic 
combat with a taxi chauffeur, sending the latter to the Re¬ 
ceiving Hospital unconscious. All Broadway is agog today 
over this sensational return of the youthful spender to its 
gay midnight realm, and also the news has stirred con¬ 
siderably the emotions of Broad and Wall Streets, where 
yesterday the millionaire’s son ceased operations as the head 
of his own brokerage establishment, which, so dame rumor 
declares, was a flat financial failure.’ ” 

Repeating the final paragraph, the railway president 
crushed the sheet of paper between clenched hands, 
breathed a deep sigh, and eyed his son with a firm, delib¬ 
erate gaze. A stray tear poised on the lash of his eye; then, 
quivering, it dropped and trickled across his ashen cheek 
in a tiny trail that glistened. 

“A birthday gift from my—my only son,” he said, “my 


The Forgotten City 


217 


namesake, my heir.” And then the heart of Charles 
Christopher Meredyth broke within him. 

It was a matter of five full minutes before the railway 
president spoke again, during which limited period his re¬ 
pentant son gave vocal vent to all the pleas of forgiveness 
he could possibly command. And then when Charles Chris¬ 
topher Meredyth did finally speak, his words came cold, 
harsh and free of sentiment. The displayed emotions had 
vanished from his features, as had the dimness from his 
eyes. He was once more the grim financial magnate. 

“I’m stating a fact, son,” he declared, “a concrete fact. 
There is only one possible way out of this frightful mess, 
one manner of escape. It’s not exceedingly honorable, I’ll 
admit, but it is effective, and that’s what counts now. 
Therefore, you will take it—Lord knows you’ve done noth¬ 
ing to deserve my sympathy, but you always were my fail¬ 
ing, and I guess you always will be. 

“According to these documents, here,” he indicated the 
litter of papers with a gesture, “you have lost in the broker¬ 
age business $41,000.00 in the past three months. Besides 
this amount, you have wasted by extravagant foolishness 
another $20,000.00. On top of this you have ruined several 
of the best years of my life and caused the death of an in¬ 
nocent man. Altogether, as a failure, you have been extra¬ 
ordinarily perfect. I gave you your chance on the two 
greatest streets in the world, Broad and Wall, among the 
richest men in the world, and the most money in the world. 
You refused to listen to reason, to even accept advice. As 
a natural consequence you failed, utterly failed. So now, 
son, I’m going to throw the gears of your existence into 
reverse—you’re going to have another chance all right, but 
of a quite different sort. You’ve had the finest—now you’re 
going to experience the coarsest. From the realm of life, 
money and pleasure, you’re going to a region of death, pov¬ 
erty and hardships. 


218 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


“You will assume a name or title of your own choice, and 
until success, both in character and finance, has been fought 
and conquered, you will not see or communicate with me 
in any manner or form. Until I am absolutely satisfied of 
your triumph you are not mine—no more than a stranger, 
one of the throng. If you choose to fail on this last chance, 
this last straw to a drowning man, to the day of my death 
I will regret this move and never forgive myself for the 
error. Therefore, it is up to you, as my son, to fight and 
prove your worth, so that I, your father, may be saved this 
everlasting grief. 

“All outstanding debts you have incurred, I will pay. 
And now I will arrange with the police authorities for your 
release, and with the press for the suppression of this fresh 
calamity. The moment these details of your freedom are 
accomplished, you will report to my secretary and comply 
immediately with the instructions he will issue. That is all 
I have to say, my son, except perhaps, that I wish you the 
best of a gentleman’s luck.” 


Chapter II 


Should you choose to depart from a Santa Fe Pullman at 
the red brick terminal which is the most magnificent struc¬ 
ture in Deming, New Mexico, and board the four-horse 
Elizabeth Ann Stage for the thriving border city of Colum¬ 
bus, twenty-two desert miles distant, you will journey, dusty 
and uncomfortable, for many hours and then approach in 
a jungle of cactus, yucca, sage brush and mesquite, the 
junction of three sand roads. Dell MacKenny, the grizzly 
driver, among many other more or less trivial things, will 
tell you that the road leading southward terminates at 
Chicca in old Mexico, that the road leading westward and 
vanishing on a blurred horizon is nothing other than a for¬ 
gotten trail to nowhere, that the road straight ahead is the 
one we will follow around the Hermanes Range to Colum¬ 
bus, and that he himself (among five hundred others) was 
General Pershing’s personal guide in the Pancho Villa cam¬ 
paign ! 

If it so occurs that you are possessed by an inquisitive 
mood or anxious for conversation in this lonely country, it 
is not at all improbable but what you will press this chauf¬ 
feur of the sand trail for further details regarding the road 
that leads to nowhere. In this day and age roads that lead 
to nowhere are, to say the least, a curiosity and, for the most 
of us, present a romantic or adventurous possibility. 

Dell MacKenny is an amiable old duck, and one of the 
extremely few conversationalists in a country of silent men. 
If he is sober, the yarn he spins about the forgotten trail is 
one you will repeat often. But there are times when he has 
leaned too heavily against the bar in Grogan’s Saloon, and 
the wildest dreams of the wildest fanatic never paralleled 


220 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


the soaring height his imagination climbs on these frequent 
debauches. However, you are doomed to verified facts and 
the truth, for on this particular afternoon as the age-battered 
stage rambles along the sand washed road, over which 
spreads the turquoise blue of the New Mexico sky, Dell is 
quite sober and therefore at his worst. 

Slowly winding to the rim of a broad mesa, he draws in 
his steeds to a cattleman’s trot, bites a fresh chew of odorous 
tobacco from a walnut plug, and points his lean arm to a 
hazy spot near the sloping base of a range of rugged moun¬ 
tains. 

“That dark blotch over there at the foot of the Cabasas,” 
he declares in the usual dull dialect,, ‘is what wuz once on 
a time the busy little city of Truceville—but it ain’t no more. 
Nope, it ain’t no more. Ye see, about a dozen or so years 
ago this bit of the country was a purty peaceful sort of place 
for humans to live in. Since the early days of Geronimo, 
the Injuns and bad greasers from Mexico wuz a raidin’ in 
Arizona, and as the pickin’s were right ripe, they left us 
over here dead alone. Come a day ten years ago when a 
feller named Granville Truce traveled out here from Penn¬ 
sylvania, looked at that spot of desert, said it wuz just what 
he wanted, and to prove it, bought a few miles of sand 
and cactus and built himself a town. Inside of six months 
a Main Street with twenty buildings on each side of it, stood 
where there had been nothin’ but nothin’. This here city 
builder from Pennsylvania named his town Truceville after 
himself and brought fifty families from the same place to 
populate it—a kind of religious crowd, I’d say. 

“For a year the place prospered dog-gone nice and grew 
up from the cowboys’ and ranchers’ trade. Then Arizona’s 
new rangers accomplished their sworn duty and spoilt every¬ 
thing. Over here the outlaws and bandits and cattle rustlers 
came in a flock. And findin’ Truceville a handy sort of 


The Forgotten City 


221 


gatherin’ spot near the border, they staked their claims by 
the force of lead-speakin’ six-shooters, and did everything 
but burn it down. Grafter Torso, a Mexican half-breed, 
built a big casino on the edge of the township and imported 
all the sins from rot-gut to women. After a year of grad¬ 
ually thinnin’ population, due to the hell the bad greasers 
raised night and day, the big raid wuz pulled off there and 
at Columbus and every family left the spot in one move, 
except ole Granville Truce and his kid of a daughter. Back 
to Pennsylvania they went, so folks say, through with the 
damn desert forever, and that wuz the finish of Truceville 
as a city. It went to the dogs. From that day to this, over 
eight years, the old founder has had the town all to his lone¬ 
some. They say he’s gone crazy as hell, an’ I wouldn’t doubt 
it. There’s still some of the old gang of cut-throats hangin’ 
out at the casino, and not a decent human among ’em. Jest 
the old man and his girl left alone with their town of forty 
vacant and decayin’ houses. Well, friend,” he invariably 
cracks the coiling lash of a bull whip, squirts a stream of 
tobacco juice on the stump of a passing cactus, and con¬ 
cludes with a weary yawn, “that’s how she goes out here 
on the desert—you never can tell. One day life—next day 
death. Giddyap, Annie!” And off with a jerk into the vast 
sea of shifting sands gallop the painted ponies of the Eliza¬ 
beth Ann Stage. 

* * * 

In the sun-baked morning of a hot and dry Fourth of 
July, the forgotten city of Truceville lay sleeping in the 
accustomed mantle of its perpetual lethargy. From the 
rotting frame of the adobe plastered structure that called 
itself, by way of a faded sign, a Court House, to the irregu¬ 
lar row of low, flat roofed shanties at the end of the single 
dirt street, not a sound or sight of life disturbed the dull 
serenity. Under the incessant boil of the New Mexico sun, 


222 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


the one time bright paints that coated the various buildings, 
had parched and popped to a nameless color that was some¬ 
how remindful of tear stains on dirty cheeks. Slats were 
minus at frequent intervals from the wooden awnings that 
shaded the narrow sidewalks. Here or there a gaunt win¬ 
dow with broken pane stared out on the drowsy stillness, 
while dangling unlatched, the wire screens had rotted to a 
rusty red. Innumerable discarded boxes and weather dam¬ 
aged implements lay decaying in the shallow gutter, and 
from the warped arches of open doors cobwebs hung un¬ 
disturbed. It was the glorious Fourth of July in Truce- 
ville, and not even the mild murmur of a playful breeze 
acknowledged a greeting. 

Presently, in the far distance, where the road that led to 
the desert junction lost itself in a dense mesquite rooted 
jungle of five-foot yucca plants, a winding column of dust 
rose spirally in the still air and swiftly drew nearer. Twenty 
minutes later a slate-gray limousine roared its twelve thun¬ 
dering cylinders down the deserted Main Street of the for¬ 
gotten city and drew to an abrupt halt opposite the two- 
story structure of what had once been the thriving Happy 
Heart Hotel. A liveried chauffeur piloted this beautiful 
monster of symmetrical curves, and beside him with arms 
rigidly folded, sat an alert footman. 

The instant a stop was effected the latter stepped to the 
ruts of the street and with trained dignity twisted the silver 
handle that opened the glass paneled door of the closed in¬ 
terior. For a moment the scene was entirely void of com¬ 
motion. Then in rapid succession three russet grips spun 
through the air from the open door and landed one on top 
of the other in the thick dust of the street. A second after¬ 
wards the exceedingly peeved countenance of a young man 
appeared at the small door and scanned the row of dilapi¬ 
dated buildings as far in each direction as his position would 


The Forgotten City 


223 


permit. A smile came to his lips and played on the lines 
of his face. Then he descended the single step to the street 
and turned, facing the limousine. Immediately the frail, 
bespectacled figure of a familiar clerkish appearing indi¬ 
vidual stepped briskly from the interior. His hand dived 
to an inner pocket, and drew forth two articles: The first 
a sealed envelope, the second, a one dollar bill in United 
States currency. 

“It is your father’s wish that you accept these,” he said. 
And then, shoving them into the young man’s hand, he 
bowed curtly and re-entered the dim recesses of the lim¬ 
ousine. Several minutes later only a rapidly vanishing 
streak of dust marked the abrupt departure of Whitcliffe 
Dryden, personal secretary to Charles Christopher Mere- 
dyth. 

For a while the youth stood motionless in silence and 
watched with a grave expression the swift disappearance 
of the speeding limousine. Then he grinned, surveyed with 
twinkling eyes the scene of decay on every side of him, and 
said, in a voice that mingled both humor and admiration: 

“Dad, old top, you’re a brick, a real brick! No one on 
God’s earth could have thought of this but you. ‘From the 
richest street to the poorest, from wealth to poverty, from 
pleasure to hardships,’—and darn if you haven’t done it!” 

Reading the almost obliterated sign above the partly ajar 
portals of the Happy Heart Hotel, the young man stuffed 
away the bill and envelope in a side pocket, took his bag¬ 
gage in hand and entered. A dismal sight met his eyes. 
From the low ceiling nets of tangled cobwebs hung in gro¬ 
tesque array. A thick mantle of gray dust coated every 
visible piece of furniture. On the clerk’s desk the cash 
register reposed in penniless disuse, while the glass in the 
adjoining cigar counter had been shattered and strewn over 
a score of empty containers. On the cheaply papered walls 


224 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


were the usual gilt frame pictures, all the worse for dirt; 
and what scattered bits of decorations remained, had been 
rudely upset or thrown heedlessly aside. It was obvious 
that the lobby of the Happy Heart Hotel did not in manner 
or appearance verify its pacifying title. 

The young man lazily arranged his baggage in a present¬ 
able stack, crossed the creaking board floor to the desk, and 
from the surface lifted the last sheet of an age-worn register. 
Procuring a silver fountain pen from a vest pocket, he 
scribbled below the final entry, a single line. It read: 

“John Doe, Limited,—New York City.” 

Then he laughed, plugged the dollar-marked key and rang 
up on the cash register the total amount of his fortune. 
After that he deposited the green-backed bill in the empty 
till and leaned back with a forced display of proprietorship 
against the ruin of the filth strewn counter. 

“Well, Mr. John Doe, Ltd.,” he said, “we are now pre¬ 
pared for business—bring on the traffic.” 

And then at this timely instant the sagging portals that 
opened to the street creaked on rusty hinges, and without 
pomp or ceremony in paraded the desired traffic. “Hello,” 
the traffic said, and started toward the desk. For a brief 
period the youth stood frozen in silence and stared with 
blinking eyes. Then he roused himself and noted, with no 
small amount of curiosity, the weird details of the strange 
character that drew nearer. Apparently, the man did not 
take into consideration the actually astounding fact of his 
own presence. His entire bearing was vague and remind¬ 
ful, somehow, of a desert mirage. 

The firm of John Doe, Ltd., looked him over thoroughly. 
From under the wide brim of an early day Stetson, a pair 
of blurred eyes, pale and expressionless, focused their lenses 
in the general direction of the newcomer, but yet they 
seemed quite unaware of his existence. The iron gray hair, 


The Forgotten City 


225 


darker beard, and hollow cheeks, coupled with the 
frail figure and sunken chest, placed his age in the vicinity 
of sixty. His costume was conspicuous by its style and 
patch-work, and consisted chiefly of a mammoth swallow¬ 
tail frock coat that disappeared from display windows in the 
year 1890 or thereabouts. From his neck dangled a flowing 
cravat of black satin, while knee-high russet brogans en¬ 
cased the baggy folds of his corduroy trousers. With all 
his innumerable patches and quaintness of garb, there clung 
about him, nevertheless, a distinct aura of dignity. His 
expression was, above everything, kindly. It would have 
been almost impossible, even on initial sight, to imagine him 
involved in an action void of honesty. His very carriage 
suggested the Ten Commandments. Yet it was apparent 
that he had been (by choice or necessity) a native for some 
years of the Southwest, for those true marks of the desert 
were woven too deeply in his demeanor to be mistaken. 

Bewildered, Gallop Meredyth, alias John Doe of Gotham, 
gradually recovered from his spell of mental numbness 
sufficiently to attain a slight resemblance of his usual com¬ 
posure, and was on the immediate verge of replying with 
a word of greeting, hackneyed or otherwise, when the odd 
character brought his lips to a smile and spoke once again. 

“Howdy, brother Thompson,” he said, nodding his head 
in the general direction of the youth, but evidently seeing 
through him to some acquaintance. “Thought I’d drop in 
an’ remind you that today’s the day. But at that, I guess 
there’s no need fearing you’d forget anything as important 
as this affair happens to be, is there?” 

Nodding as though agreeing with a reply, he calmly 
walked past the amazed young man and paused not a pace 
away at the rim of the vacant cigar counter. Then, as 
though suddenly hearing his name called, he abruptly turned 
and waved his hand in a gesture toward a bare table and 
empty chair. A merry twinkle came to his kind eyes. 


226 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


“Well, if it ain’t old man Benson!” he cried. “Thought 
you said you were going to have your appetite satisfied at my 
house next time you rode in, instead of ruining your 
abdominal cavity here? But then, on the other hand, why 
should I wonder? The reason is plain as daylight, and 
wetter than water.” 

Chuckling, he cast a wink at the dilapidated remains of a 
glass littered bar. Then he added: “Even the most noble 
and honorable cities do have their beverage drinking 
denizens. Therefore, Stephen Benson of the Double Bar X, 
you are permitted with due apologies to remain, and also to 
have a chat with me at the office before you leave for that 
cow raising mecca of yours. Now, remember, Ben, we meet 
at the office, later.” 

He turned and faced the cigar counter again. His gaze 
searched the tobaccoless tray. “Never mind, Thompson,” 
he said, “I’ll get it, myself.” 

Sliding back the glassless lid of the nearest container, he 
selected what was apparently a fat cigar from an empty 
box. This imaginary cheroot he placed between parted 
lips, closed the lid over the container, and began a diligent 
search of his numerous pockets for a match. Unsuccess¬ 
ful, he smiled toward the dumfounded Gallop. This time 
the hazy blur had disappeared from his eyes and he spoke 
directly to him. 

“You’ll have to give me a match, Thompson,” he said; 
“must have lost the box I got last night. Or perhaps Grafter 
Torso’s gang got ’em—that pack of greasers would steal 
anything, you know.” 

On the spur of the moment, whether humorously inclined 
or impelled by the request, he never knew, Gallop drew 
his monogrammed lighter from its silver socket and handed 
it over. The strange character accepted it with a murmur 
of appreciation and after enacting the movements necessary 


The Forgotten City 


227 


to illuminate his imaginary cigar, he threw it to the floor as 
he would have a burnt match. Incredible thoughts throbbed 
incessantly in Gallop’s mind. And after stooping to retrieve 
the discarded torch he found himself staring about the de¬ 
serted lobby in hope of finding some person he had hereto¬ 
fore overlooked, or of uncovering a plausible solution to the 
intriguing problem. But then again the man’s words 
roused him. 

“I think it best, Thompson,” he was saying, “that you 
do not attend the meeting arm in arm with me. We'll spring 
a bit of surprise on the boys—not a one has guessed I se¬ 
lected you. So instead of coming up the front way with me, 
you go around behind the jail and climb the stairs to the 
rear room of my office. I’ve left it unlocked. So you enter 
and wait close by the door that opens to the council room 
until you hear me call your name. Then you come on in. 
How’s that? A little different from what they’ll expect. 
And besides, if they’ve got a kick to yell, it’ll save you the 
embarrassment of listening, understand? I thought you’d 
agree.” 

Drawing a length of tarnished chain from a vest pocket 
he presently fixed his pale eyes on the stained dial of a 
huge, gun metal watch. “Nearly eleven o’clock,” he de¬ 
clared. “We’re due in ten minutes, Thompson. And now 
for the sake of Truceville, don’t be late and don’t back out!” 

So saying, he took Gallop’s limp hand in the grip of his 
own and shook it heartily. 

“You’re just the man we need,” he declared. “A man 
among men.” Then, before Gallop was able to protest, or 
in fact, speak, the strange character blew an invisible puff 
of smoke from the visionary cigar and strode through the 
doors to the silent street. 

With a mighty sigh of relief, Gallop steadied his physical 
self, but his mind refused to surrender, and thus it was that 


228 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


for the better part of five minutes his thoughts and 
emotions fumbled riotously with unanswerable questions 
and arrived at no definite decisions. Nevertheless, he was 
unable to resist the fascination that possessed him, so he 
presently found himself behind the brick wall of a building 
with iron barred windows, climbing a rickety stairway, 
and finally entering the dingy square of a ten-by-ten office. 
The single decoration was a framed Chemist Decree, which 
hung on a plaster wall above the one piece of furniture—a 
roll-top desk. On equal terms with the lobby of the Happy 
Heart Hotel, the predominating commodity was a thick 
covering of sifted dust, which lay heavily upon everything, 

from the uncarpeted floor to crevices in the ceiling. 

Following the explicit directions, Gallop crossed to a door 
that led apparently to an adjoining chamber. This he slight¬ 
ly opened and peered in. At the same moment, the sound 
of footsteps became audible, and presently the aged indi¬ 
vidual entered from a hallway. In the arch of the doorway 
he paused for an instant. 

“Greetings, gentlemen,” he said, removing his hat and 
bending his head in a dignified bow. “I am pleased to see 
there is not a single absence among the members of our 
Council—pleased for the reason that today is a day that will 
live forever in the annals of Truceville history.” 

With that, he hung his hat on the missing hook of a tree 
rack, and evidently failed to notice its instantaneous tumble 
to the floor. Then he crossed to a chair at the head of a 
long table and seated himself. All the formerly displayed 
traces of humor that possessed him in the hotel lobby, had 
left his countenance, and now his manner was business, 
through and through. 

Unable to see clearly from the slender crevice in the partly 
ajar door, Gallop shifted his position to a point of vantage 
and widened the crack by an inch. Then he permitted his 
gaze to scan the chamber. 


The: Forgotte:n City 


229 


It was a large room, and in far better order and condi¬ 
tion than the lobby and dismal hole he had recently left. 
Behind the seated individual, a trio of unwashed windows 
peered down a single flight to the slumbering street. A col¬ 
ored and framed reproduction of a painting of George 
Washington stood majestically on the ledge of a wide man¬ 
tel, beneath which sat a small safe, open and apparently 
free of contents. The table, where the strange man had 
seated himself, was of a type familiar to the consultation 
chambers or conference offices of a dozen years past. Scat¬ 
tered around it were six rather comfortable looking chairs, 
and from these to the figure at the head of the table, Gallop 
switched his gaze. 

Rising with several pages of finger-worn manila paper in 
his hand and propping one palm on the surface of the table, 
the odd character cleared his throat and spoke. 

“Members of the Council of the City of Truceville,” he 
said, “order is called in this meeting.” Then after a pause 
and glance at the sheets of paper: “We are faced by a 
crisis unparalleled in our brief existence as a community. 
To tell you how vastly important this week, beginning today, 
the tenth of March, 1916, is to Truceville, is to tell you that 
unless we pass throughout the week unmolested by the 
plundering gangs of outlaws and murderous bandits who 
have within the last few days congregated in amazing num¬ 
bers across the border from Columbus and thereby placing 
us, so close at hand, in a very dangerous predicament, there 
will cease to be a city of Truceville. For as you all know 
very well, we are now tormented to the limit of endurance 
by the continually riotous conduct of Grafter’s greasers, and 
Truceville needs but one more blow of this sort to ruin it 
forever as a decent town where decent citizens may live in 
peace. 

“To me, gentlemen, the name of Truceville means a great 


230 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


deal more than you probably suppose. The fact that I 
founded it, bought and paid for every inch of its property, 
planned and built each and every one of its houses, that I 
am and have always been its Mayor, means not so much to 
me as the sentiment of it. 

“When three years ago I spent a fortune in erecting 
Truceville, advertising its free houses and opportunities, 
importing its inhabitants and installing them at a personal 
expense in the life and trade of its tiny world, I honestly 
tell you that there was no mercenary idea or get-rich-quick 
scheme behind it. Nor did I at that time see the great possi¬ 
bilities of the desert. Although in my profession, chemistry 
and science, they are seldom encountered, I am a dyed-in- 
the-wool sentimentalist, a dreamer. 

“Since twenty-five years of age, my one dream, my only 
goal, my single ideal has been the erection of a city like the 
original Truceville, the Truceville of the days before the 
Casino and Grafter descended like a plague among us. That 
was the ambition of my life. 

“You ask why—for the reasons, the details and such? 
There is nothing startling about them. I had the idea that 
William Penn once had. The most beautiful flowers blos¬ 
som from the finest of seeds. Therefore, why couldn’t there 
be a perfect community, a city of honest and faithful souls, 
if they, too, were planted with care from the finest seeds? 

“How I personally traversed back and forth the greater 
share of Pennsylvania in search of inhabitants for Truce¬ 
ville, how I presented free leases and full transportation to 
those I found who were in sympathy with my plan, and 
how I sowed the fine seeds for my model community by 
careful and diligent selection of my population, is a story 
familiar to all of you gentlemen. And how it soon came 
about, when Truceville was growing and progressing splen¬ 
didly, that Arizona drove the rustlers and bandits from its 


The: Forgotten City 


231 


molested boundaries, and these cut-throats found our city 
situated so that fleeing across the border to Mexico was but 
an hour’s ride, and therefore selected it as their haven and 
rendezvous, is likewise an old story. But these facts I am 
reciting again for a concrete purpose, a purpose, gentlemen, 
you will soon recognize. 

“With the arrival of a letter by yesterday’s stage mail, 
Grafter Torso and his band of cattle rustlers have cost us 
a sum so great as to be almost uncountable. I have been 
informed that the Santa Fe will not construct the branch 
railroad to Truceville, as they originally planned. They 
quite frankly attribute this change in decision to the unruly 
and derogatory name that has been unfairly stamped upon 
us by the atrocious incidents bred from the crafty plans of 
Grafter and executed by his obedient thieves. I don’t in 
the least blame the Santa Fe for their change of decision. 
Since the building of Grafter’s Casino on the edge of our, at 
that time, peaceful city, eight months ago, we have had two 
sheriffs, one deputy and seven citizens murdered in cold 
blood on our main street. 

“There have been innumerable robberies, and gun fights, 
galore. At first, we were able to resist this descension of 
outlawry by force and the authority of the law, as you know. 
But as the crowd at the Casino rapidly grew to a mob of 
fifty or more bloodthirsty greasers, our power gradually de¬ 
creased, until today finds us a vile hell-hole for the Mexican 
bandits and derelict wastrels of the entire Southwest, to 
say nothing of being on the trembling verge of forfeiting 
our charter as a township, and without a third of our origi¬ 
nal citizens. 

“No, gentlemen, I do not blame the Santa Fe for the 
action they have taken. And they surely must have investi¬ 
gated conditions here thoroughly for, as you know, they 
purchased twenty-five acres of desert from me eight months 


232 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


ago, whereon they intended erecting a station and large 
shipping yards, and no organization as efficient as the Santa 
Fe is going to wilfully lose money if there is any possible 
remedy that will save it. 

“They see no light in the future for Truceville, so they 
reverse their decision, which, gentlemen, is very discourag¬ 
ing to us all. But yet I, as one, am not wholly disheartened. 
I firmly believe there is still a fighting chance for Truce¬ 
ville—a slender chance to win. We citizens gathered here, 
members of the Council and Mayor, have our businesses es¬ 
tablished locally after untiring labor, continual strife, and a 
hard, uphill battle that has been fought and won, person¬ 
ally, by each of us. Now we face defeat. And, gentlemen, 
we must not surrender without a prolonged, if necessary, 
and ferocious fight. Two days have passed since our Sher¬ 
iff, Steve Dorsay, one of the finest men I ever knew, was 
killed by a greaser’s six-shooter. And that is one of the 
purposes of this gathering—to appoint a man to take his 
place. A man who will not be lenient with those who have 
wronged, a man who will not fear Grafter or his gang, and 
above everything, a man who will kill, if necessary, return 
shot for shot, till Truceville is once again the model com¬ 
munity of its infancy days. 

“From what remains of our trusted citizens, I have with 
much deliberation and confidence selected a man whom I be¬ 
lieve capable of controlling our city and holding it within 
the bounds of law and order. He is a man who, although 
hardly more than a youngster in age, has traveled far, seen 
lots, and felt more. He is not one of the original Truceville 
inhabitants, and when he first came to us a year past, I 
think, with all due respect to him now, that as a whole, 
Truceville did not approve of his authoritative manner, nor 
welcome, what we should have titled youth, instead of 
egotism. However, gentlemen, that is in the far past and it 


The: Forgotten City 


233 


is today that concerns us vitally. He is frankly the one man 
in our reduced population that has the ability, the nerve, and 
the out-and-out guts to stand up and battle against this 
predicament our city verges upon. To be truthful, you 
gentlemen know little about this man whom I have chosen, 
but I promise you I have chosen a fighter if ever there was 
one, and a man among men. 

“Now is one of the greatest moments of my life as I 
present to you the man in whose hands rests the destiny 
of Truceville, the man whom I feel will deliver us safely 
from a grave impending disaster, the man himself, Darcey 
Thompson, Sherifif of Truceville, by Mayor’s appointment." 

Nodding, with the last word, toward the doorway that led 
to his rear chamber, Granville Truce, founder of Truceville, 
indicated the man of his selection. And into the room at 
the indicated moment and spot, stepped the disgraced son 
of Charles Christopher Meredyth. 

There was not a twinkle of humor in his eyes—quite the 
opposite. Beneath a slight frown, his face held an ex¬ 
pression of firm, determined seriousness. All the merriment 
had departed from his demeanor—that was obvious—and 
it is quite possible, yes, very likely, that he trembled with 
the urge to fight, as, often, real men do. 


Chapter III 


For the immediate moment that succeeded his introduc¬ 
tion of the new sheriff, Granville Truce held a silent pose. 
Then, his eye fastened on the figure of the youth who stood 
awkwardly in the doorway, he moved his fingers in a beckon¬ 
ing gesture and spoke. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, weighing his words carefully, “are 
there any reasons why Mr. Darcey Thompson should not 
hold the office to which I have appointed him ?” 

Another moment of silence, then : “I am pleased with your 
acceptance of my selection and I honestly feel that Mr. 
Thompson is also pleased and will honor everything I have 
claimed for him. With your permission, I will now swear 
him in.” 

On the street below, a Mexican wearing an oily sombrero, 
drew his trotting pony to a dead halt and glanced upward 
at the second-story window of a frame and plaster structure 
in time to behold an elderly man pin a glistening badge on 
the breast of a mere youth and fasten about the waist of 
the latter, two ugly revolvers of high caliber and a loaded 
belt of cartridges. This was enough for the astonished 
Mexican. Planting the silver spurs in the ribs of his steed, 
he lurched to a fast gallop and was soon lost in a turn of 
the street. 

In the Council Chamber above, Gallop Meredyth, alias 
John Doe, Limited, of New York City, alias Sheriff Darcey 
Thompson of Truceville, New Mexico, was experiencing 
the puzzling effect of a perplexing frame of mind. To de¬ 
scribe or list the conflicting emotions that surged through 
his system is an utter impossibility. Out of it all he came to 
only one fact: He had been duly sworn in by the apparent 


The Forgotten City 


235 


Mayor of the city as the Sheriff, and therefore, in all proba¬ 
bility and according to the law, he was the Sheriff. Why 
this had all occurred or for what reason, came under the 
title, “Unanswerable Problems,” and Gallop for the instant 
was content to let it go at that. He was interested more 
than anything in what the Mayor was saying, and in the 
advice he was giving. 

“That’s my firm opinion, gentlemen,” Granville Truce de¬ 
clared. “That’s one of the main reasons why our com¬ 
munity should be preserved lawfully. I’ll venture to say 
there is more money to the square foot around here than 
the finest gold mine in the West produces. And further¬ 
more, it is not to be made in either minerals or oil. It is 
as yet a new, undeveloped commodity, absolutely never 
marketed previously, and as soon as we can clean up Truce- 
ville and I am able to devote time to chemical tests and labo¬ 
ratory experiments, I will share with you gentlemen the 
secret of a remarkable product. If ever it can be perfected, 
there is millions in it for us all. And that alone, casting 
aside determination and sentiment, is enough to make us 
fight for the freedom and peace of our community. It is 
needless for us to tell Sheriff Thompson that he may expect 
our sincere aid—he knows just how and where we stand. 
Therefore, gentlemen, with your consent, this meeting is 
now adjourned.” 

Throughout it all Gallop stood motionless and quiet, un¬ 
doubtedly impressed by the Mayor’s statement. Why under 
the sun he should be impressed was as vague in his mind as 
the fact that he was Sheriff. Since his first year at college 
he had done his utmost to satisfy a more than average 
young man’s passionate desire for some sort of unusual ex¬ 
citement or fiction-like adventure, and with the exception 
of infrequent wayward strays from the beaten path he had 
encountered really nothing that might actually be consid- 


236 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


ered unique. Manhattan had failed him—and here, in this 
decayed dropping-off place at the end of a forgotten trail, 
he had experienced in one hour more original action than 
the previous events of his twenty-three years combined. 
With this under his hat, Gallop was a bit more at ease. It 
somehow removed the predicament angle from the situation 
and left only the spirit of adventure. But as yet, further 
movements on his part were undetermined; he decided to 

encourage nothing and accept whatever came. 

And it was not long in coming, for at that particular in¬ 
stant the elderly Mayor assumed, without apparent founda¬ 
tion, a ghastly expression and leaned back weakened against 
the table for support. His eyes bulged to their widest ex¬ 
tent and Gallop was about to come to his assistance, when 
with a gasp, he cried aloud. 

“Good God!" came his shrill words. “They’ve done that? 
They’ve burned Columbus ? Pancho Villa!—and are headed 
for here? No! No! There’s some mistake. There must 
be ! There must!” 

Then ensued a long frightful minute of silence in which 
icy beads of sweat broke on the brow of Granville Truce, 
and Gallop, startled by this fresh situation, found himself 
scrutinizing the chamber for a possible answer. None did 
he discover. And then, portraying vividly the acute danger 
his last utterance foretold, the Mayor stuttered something 
inaudible about fleeing from Pancho Villa’s bandits to the 
shelter of the Court House, and grasping his hat from where 
it had fallen, complied speedily with his own suggestion. 

After pausing to light a cigarette, Gallop took his time 
and followed at a leisurely pace. The pleasing aroma and 
stimulating effect of the nicotine calmed his emotions, occu¬ 
pied his thoughts, and above all, prevented him from func¬ 
tioning his mind, which was fortunate, for he was in no 
mental condition to think clearly. 


The Forgotten City 


237 


Reaching the doorway that led to the street, he shoved 
it wide open and stepped out on the narrow sidewalk. In 
rapid succession three thundering shots rang out in the still 
air and when he finally picked himself up uninjured from 
where he had dropped by instinct of self-preservation, he 
found a hole the size of a lead pencil in his hat, the butt of 
one of the recently acquired revolvers shattered in its leather 
holster, and the light shot ofif the tip of his cigarette, which 
was, he thought, going a bit too far without introduction. 

“So you're the new Sheriff ?” Gallop heard a snickering 
voice behind his back inquire. “The new savior of Truce- 
ville—well, I'll be damned! Why didn’t they pick a valen¬ 
tine and be done with it?” 

Brushing the dust from his clothes, he turned about and 
faced the speaker, and then immediately shifted his gaze, 
for one glance at the mammoth bulk was sufficient. In the 
creation and designing of this specimen the Lord balanced 
his ledgers with a thousand beautiful women. “If this is 
Grafter Torso,” thought Gallop as he waited nervously for 
the next move, “anything anybody has ever said about him 
is more than true—it’s verified on face value.” 

“How’s business, Mabel?” the question seeped from lips 
that chuckled; the jet eyes beneath the low, corrugated fore¬ 
head blinked in amusement. “Just playin’ at Sheriff, son, 
to entertain yourself, or are you figurin’ on departin’ from 
here in a box? I’m always interested in nice young fools 
like you, sabe? Hate to see ’em get mutilated. So tough 
on the other females, ain’t it?” 

“From the gun in each hand and the cigarette in your 
mouth, all three smokin’, I take it you did the recent 
shooting, and I arrest you in the name of the law for at¬ 
tempted murder. Hand over your guns and reach for the 
sky,—be quick!” Gallop literally shot the demand. 

For a moment the huge Mexican grinned, then his lips 


238 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


curled to a raw sneer and his complexion faded to a light 
oily hue. 

“I’m Grafter Torso of Arizona,” he growled, “an’ I don’t 
play with kids like you, sabe? I’ll give you just fifteen 
seconds to beat it—or by God, they’ll carry you away!” 

“I told you once you were under arrest,” Gallop advised, 
hoping against hope that his bluff would succeed, for he 
realized in actual combat he was no match for the bandit, 
“and unless you also want a charge of resisting arrest against 
you, you'd better come peacefully and come now.” 

“Say, listen, gringo,” the other snarled, “I sabe what's 
wrong with you—your family when they raised you were 
taking a correspondence school course in physical culture, 
and you, like a genuine sap, got your sister’s mail by mis¬ 
take. Now, don't give me a yes or no, and I’ll allow you 
to leave town altogether. But any more of this tellin’ me 
what to do stuff an’ I’m liable to damage you way beyond 
repair. Take a tip, kid, and clear out—now scoot!'’ 

Gripping Gallop’s tweed coat by the lapels, the towering 
Mexican held him in a firm grasp. His eyes narrowed to 
sparkling beads. “You hear what I said?” he repeated. 
“Now ship your freight!” So saying he jarred the youth 
with a rough jerk and flung him with no effort whatever 
to the dust of the street. 

Without a murmur of protest Gallop rose and unfastened 
the thick mahogany-tanned belt that circled his middle, then 
he removed the metal badge of authority from his breast 
and threw off his light jacket. 

“Whenever you’re ready, you dirty snake,” he growled 
with forced boldness, clenching his fists and settling in a 
fighting pose, “stand up here like the real man you wish 
you were, and take the worst beating of your filthy life.” 

The only reply was a sneering gurgle, which disheartened 
the youth not a little, for he recognized the futility of a fistic 


The Forgotten City 


239 


encounter with the bandit and was depending upon a stiff 
bluff to extract him from the dangerous predicament. How¬ 
ever, the Sheriff of Truceville was doomed to disappoint¬ 
ment, for the muscular outlaw removed his own parapher¬ 
nalia, guns, canteen and pearl handled stiletto, and with an 
exchange of very few but powerful blows, humbled the 
youth to an unconscious mess on the dust of the street. 
Then he calmly rolled a brown papered cigarette, recovered 
his weapons and rode away on a sorrel mare that had been 
tied to a hitching post across the street in front of the hotel. 


Chapter IV 


It was a dry, sultry morning, even for July on the border, 
when the recently appointed Sheriff of Truceville awakened 
from a forced slumber of numerous hours and after blinking 
his eyes and clearing his head, looked about, more or less 
bewildered. What primarily gained his interest were the 
clean white folds of an exceedingly neat bandage which 
circled his forehead. This instantly set him to thinking 
about the extent of his bruises, and wondering what had 
occurred succeeding the terrific uppercut which had found 
its mark on the vital point of his chin. Perhaps he was a 
captive in the grip of the Mexican bandit, Grafter Torso. 
This probability was dispelled by a survey of his surround¬ 
ings. Apparently he had been carried to the bedchamber 
of a private residence. Pictures of a rather decent style 
hung from the plaster walls and on the floors bright colored 
Navajo rugs were arranged with care. No, he decided, this 
would hardly be the rendezvous of an outlaw. More likely 
the home of a law abiding citizen. But then, where would 
one find such an abode in the remains of Truceville? 

This problem dominated his thoughts until the sound 
of footsteps became audible and presently a door at the far 
end of the room opened. Gallop rose on a doubled elbow 
and faced the doorway. Then he stared. But it was not 
until he pinched himself several times and rubbed his eyes 
in amazement that he was convinced of the actuality of what 
he beheld. That such a delicious morsel of feminine beauty 
as the youthful creature who advanced toward him, could 
possibly exist so far from Broadway as the desert of New 
Mexico, was to Gallop an absurd, incredible impossibility. 

Her hair was intensely black, a glossy jet, he eagerly ob- 


The Forgotten City 


241 


served; her eyes a turquoise blue, with long dark lashes; her 
figure small and boyish. Somehow, after what he had so 
recently witnessed, she seemed of a different and vastly 
opposite realm. In a single moment his mind had been 
washed of the grotesque old man who conversed with 
invisible beings, the snarling bandit who shot so accurately 
and the forgotten street of dead houses. And now it was 
being soothingly bathed in a solution of unimaginable bliss. 

“Are you feeling any better?” she anxiously inquired, a 
smile curving her red mouth. “I certainly hope so. Both 
father and I have been terribly worried.” 

“Why, why yes,” Gallop finally managed to stutter, not 
entirely recovered from the blow the appearance of the girl 
dealt him, “but I didn’t imagine my defeat meant anything 
to anyone so, well, so nice as you. If I had, I think I 
would have fought harder. Yes, on second thought I know 
I should have.” 

“That’s awfully kind of you, Mr., Mr.-” 

“Thompson,” Gallop lied glibly, recalling the penalty his 
father imposed, “Darcey Thompson, Sheriff of Truceville by 
proxy. And now that introductions are in order, you are 
Miss-?” 

“Truce,” she replied, “Pauline Truce. You see, Mr. 
Thompson, I’m responsible for your—your accident. It was 
my father who got you in this horrible mess, and, well you 
understand, anything he does that’s not just right, I always 
try to repair or make amends for. Father, I’m sorry to say, 
is not the man Truceville once knew him to be. I do hope, 
though, you’ll forgive us, Mr. Thompson. And if there’s 
anything either of us can do to make you comfortable, I 
really wish you’d let us. Is there?” 

“Yes, Miss Truce,” Gallop answered, “promise you won’t 
leave this room. Or, if you do, that you’ll come back. 
Promise?” 


242 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


“Why surely, Mr. Thompson. I intend to stay with you 
until you’re able to get up. I’d hardly advise rising for 
several hours, though. You must have suffered terribly. Is 
the cut on your head painful?” 

“Now that you’ve mentioned it,” replied Gallop, “I do 
recall a sort of tender spot somewhere above my eye. And 
now that you’ve also said you were going to stay with me till 
I’m able to rise, I find, after careful analysis, I will be con¬ 
fined in this very bed indefinitely—or nearly that long. 
Now, Miss Truce, see how you’ve affected me.” 

“As a physician, I fear I’ve erred,” she laughed. “Never¬ 
theless my promise will be faithful—even to eternity, or as 
you say, nearly that long. Now if you’ll lay back and be 
quiet and let me put this pillow behind your head, I think 
you’ll rest lots easier.” 

“Really, Miss Truce,” Gallop declared, “I’m not hurt at 
all. In fact, to be truthful, with the exception of a racing 
heart, I never felt better in all my life. I’d much rather sit 
up and talk to you, if you don’t mind, and then afterwards 
I’ll take the air for a spell. That’ll about straighten me 
out, I think. May I ?” 

“If you’re positive your injuries are not serious, Mr. 
Thompson,” came the reply in an anxious voice. “I’d feel 
terrible, though, if it developed you were real badly hurt.” 

“Now, Miss Truce, you just forget all this ‘responsibility’ 
foolishness,” Gallop insisted. “You or your father are not 
to blame in the least for anything that’s happened to me or 
anything I’ve done. I went into this affair solely of my own 
volition, and because I chose to. And now that I’m in, 
Grafter Torso and all the outlaws in New Mexico aren’t 
going to find it easy to get me out, at least not until I’m 
darn good and ready to resign. There’s one thing I’d like 
to ask: Is your father legally the Mayor of Truceville?” 

“Father founded Truceville, and is the one and only 


The: Forgotten City 


243 


Mayor it has ever known. And until you came, the only 
resident citizen since a week after the raid at Columbus in 
March, 1916. Of course, there are a crowd of Mexican 
cattle rustlers and bandits who make the Casino their 
haven, but Truceville has never, and will never wilfully 
accept them. You see, Mr. Thompson, Truceville was orig¬ 
inally a hobby of father’s; an ambition. He lived for its 
success. Worked for it. Spent a hard earned fortune on it. 
And then, gave his mind for it. Father is, as you have un¬ 
doubtedly recognized, hopelessly insane. It came upon him 
the day after Pancho Villa’s bandits burned Columbus and 
raided us. He realized the final blow had descended upon 
the future of Truceville, and the thought of it unbalanced 
him mentally. From that day to this, he enacts every detail 
of the events that occurred on the day of Villa’s raid, the day 
his ambition, his life work failed. Instead of progressing 
with the years, he has marked time, living incessantly the 
final day of his sanity—doing, saying and thinking as he did 
in those last few hours. Oh, it’s pitiful, Mr. Thompson, 
it’s heartbreaking! He tried so hard to make a model com¬ 
munity of Truceville, he fought so bravely even to the 
climax, that it simply sickens me to realize what’s come of 
it, or rather, what his fate has been. When a person has 
had no mercenary object whatsoever in mind, and has 
always done the honest thing, as I know father has done, 
it seems frightfully unfair that a life of imbecility should be 
his reward. But then I suppose we should not criticise those 
things. Somehow, it seems justified in this case, though.” 

A brevity of silence, then: “I’ve probably annoyed you 
terribly with all this uninteresting sentiment, Mr. Thomp¬ 
son,” the girl added, “but I felt I owed you an apology and 
explanation of father’s conduct, and I thought to tell you the 
story itself would be the simplest way out. If you’ve been 
bored, I’m sorry.” 


244 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


“Now after telling me in the sweetest manner possible, the 
most pathetic story I’ve ever heard, you go and spoil it all 
by accusing me of being bored. I’m ashamed of you, 
Miss Truce, especially when you take into consideration that 
I have no excuse under the sun for accepting your care or 
hospitality. No one influenced me to become Sheriff. Your 
father merely offered the appointment; I accepted. That’s 
all there is to it, and unless you refrain from blaming it on 
your old daddy and apologizing to me, the first name I write 
on the jail blotter will be Miss Pauline Truce, daughter of 
the Mayor, jugged for insult and battery of his honor, the 
Sheriff. Now will you be good?” 

“Well, I prefer silence to prison, Mr. Thompson,” she 
answered in a demure voice, “so I guess you win. And be¬ 
sides, it makes me feel just wonderful to know you don’t 
blame father. It seems as though everyone always has for 
everything that’s ever occurred in his life. And really when 
he was himself there never could have been a kinder, sweeter 
or more thoughtful person in the whole world. I simply 
adored him, and I do his memory yet. And then who can 
tell, sometime in the future there might come a day when 
the threads of his life will untangle and again he will be the 
same wonderful father. I’ve promised myself never to 
cease hoping, and I never will, Mr. Thompson, not to the 
very moment of my death” 

Gallop prepared to offer a word of comfort, but the 
utterance died in his throat. He waited until the lump 
descended, then: “You’re a brave little girl, Miss Pauline,” 
he said, “there’s not many that would devote their lives to a 
person in your father’s condition, and you deserve a lot 
more credit than you probably get. But then that’s usually 
the way. If you don’t mind my telling it—take my own 
case, for instance. I’ve never given up anything for anybody 
in my whole life, not a single thing, luxury or otherwise. 


The: Forgotten City 


245 


I’ve never suffered in anybody’s shoes, cared for anybody’s 
feelings, or gone out of my way very far to do them a favor. 
Yet on top of it all, I've never been bothered with a guilty 
conscience and Fve always had a good time, done about as 
I pleased. So you see, this is an unfair world, no matter 
how you look at it.” 

A pause, a sigh, and then: “But now to get back to 
Truceville and your father,’’ Gallop continued. “It is prob¬ 
ably a question in your mind just what I’m intending to do. 
As I see it there is only one course open for me to follow. 
Here are the facts: You are unable to leave this deserted 
hole because your father is unable, or will not leave it. And 
your duty, naturally, is with him. I, by especial appoint¬ 
ment, am the Sheriff. Furthermore, I like you immensely 
and I desire to be near you more than I desire anything. 
Therefore, dulv sworn as the Sheriff of Truceville, the 
Sheriff I will be in every sense of the word. I will remain 
and I will fight. Better men than I have failed in this office, 
I realize—but somehow when I look in those great big blue 
eyes of yours, Miss Pauline, all I need to do to lick the 
enemy, is find them. Therefore with your permission, I’ll 
have my hat, my guns and badge; I’m off for a glance at the 
scene of yesterday’s affray, and incidentally to make my first 
arrest. I’ll be going, Miss Pauline.” 


Chapter V 


In his initial day as Sheriff of Truceville, Gallop Meredyth 
accomplished several important bits of regularity. His 
primary action was to visit the dingy jail and the adjoining 
(Sheriff’s quarters and sweep them both. It was a matter 
of an hour’s diligent labor to make their interiors even 
presentable, but eventually he finished the task, and con¬ 
cluded by discovering an unopened can of red enamel and 
painting, with broad strokes, a vivid sign. Completed, it 
read: 

OFFICE OF DARCEY THOMPSON 
SHERIFF OF 
TRUCEVILLE 

This he nailed over the door of the office on the street 
side. Then he searched every draw r er in the desk that 
reposed within, and finally succeeded in uncovering the 
object he desired. It was a cardboard sign, evidently never 
displayed. Satisfied, he crossed to the door with the idea 
of departing, when a closed closet caught his interest and 
under pressure of search revealed an assortment of gar¬ 
ments, typically Western. Selecting those in wearable con¬ 
dition, he effected a rapid change in costume, and presently 
the slumbering street echoed with the swaggering tread 
of a two-gun buckeroo, who carried a cardboard sign under 
his arm, wore a glistening badge on his flannel shirted 
breast, and exuded a distinct effluvium of authority. 

In the shadow of the Happy Heart Plotel, Gallop en¬ 
countered the Mayor. The latter called him Thompson, by 
name, and mentioned the fact that an individual had been 
shot earlier in the day in a rumpus at the Casino, and 
that perhaps the matter needed official investigation. 


The: Forgotten City 


247 


“Don’t bother, though, Sheriff,” he added, “if it’s a greaser. 
The more we lose, the better for Truceville.” Then he did 
a truly extraordinary thing. Apparently his unbalanced 
mind visioned a blind beggar sitting on the sidewalk against 
the wall of the hotel, for from an inner pocket he procured 
a thin dime, and dropped it with a smile in the exact spot 
where an outstretched hat would naturally be. The silver 
coin struck the cracked asphalt with a tinkle and rolled to 
the gutter of the street. 

“Never fail with my daily dime,” Granville Truce de¬ 
clared. “Live and let live, you know.” Then he nodded a 
farewell and entered the lobby of the hotel. 

For a moment Gallop stared at the dime in silence. Then 
again he continued his progress and soon afterwards passed 
the last shack on the edge of the township. In a sand hollow, 
hardly a hundred paces away, a group of low adobe build¬ 
ings formed an irregular square. The largest by far, stood 
in the center, and above a string of wide doors that ran the 
length of its front, two gaudy signs, one in English, the 
other Spanish, marked it as Grafter Torso’s Casino and 
•Saloon. The smaller adobes were evidently occupied, for 
columns of pale smoke rose from plaster chimneys in the 
warm air, and about them hung an atmosphere of life. 

Realizing the Casino would hardly open its portals for 
business until late afternoon or evening, Gallop advanced 
through the square of shanties to the main entrance. Here 
he paused and drew forth several nails from the bulge of a 
jacket pocket. Using a stone boulder for his hammer, he 
fastened the cardboard sign in a conspicuous place on the 
door. Then he stepped back and reread its bold lettering: 


248 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


—SHERIFF’S NOTICE— 

UNTIL FURTHER PROCLAMATION IS ISSUED, 
THIS DOOR WILL REMAIN SEALED AGAINST 
BUSINESS NEGOTIATIONS. ALL COMMUNICA¬ 
TIONS WILL BE ADDRESSED TO THE CITY 
COUNCIL, TOWNSHIP OF TRUCEVILLE, STATE 
OF NEW MEXICO. 

BY ORDER OF THE SHERIFF. 

In pencil he scribbled a single line under the final notation. 
It read: “Darcey Thompson—July 5, 1922." Then he 
looked about and discovered he had been apparently un¬ 
observed during the entire incident; numerous signs of 
existence on each side, but not one human figure. He was 
undecided whether or not this pleased him. Nevertheless 
he knew to let well enough alone was usually the thing 
to do in most cases of doubt, so he turned on his heels 
and retraced his steps up the slope of the sand hollow to¬ 
ward the Forgotten City. 

Nearing the line of dilapidated houses that bordered the 
main street, Gallop’s path led close to a cluster of cross- 
marked graves, he had not previously noticed. His youthful 
curiosity aroused, he bent over and read the simple memorial 
carved in the nearest. And then a faint smile came to his 
features, broadened to a grin and thence to a chuckle so 
hearty as to fairly possess him. 

BORN, NOV. 24, 1884 —DIED, MAR. 10, 1916. 

here: RESTS DARCEY THOMPSON, 

ADMIRABLE OE CHARACTER, BRAVE 
AT HEART, TRUE OE SOUL, WHO 
DEPARTED FROM OUR MIDST WHILE 
COURAGEOUSLY SERVING TRUCEVILLE 
IN THE HONORABLE OFFICE OF 
SHERIFF. 


The Forgotten City 


249 


Gallop continued to smile until he seated himself at 
the desk in his recently acquired office, searched his dis¬ 
carded garments for the sealed envelope his father’s sec¬ 
retary had presented, and finally located it in a side pocket 
of his tweed coat. From then until the interruption his 
attitude was intently serious. Dexterous fingers tore the 
paper folds and presently an important appearing document 
lay on the desk before him. In brief, Gallop learned, after 
much reading and more figuring, that a section of twenty- 
five acres of land, Plot 21—Block C., Truceville, New 
Mexico, formerly owned by the Santa Fe Railroad and 
transferred to the Consolidated American by mutual consent 
was now his personal possession by a direct deed from 
Charles Christopher Meredyth, payment already received. 

This astounding revelation placed his Truceville rating in 
a new light, Gallop decided. Sheriff to begin with, and now 
a property owner, injected the necessary personal interest 
in the task he had taken upon himself, and also had the 
effect of erasing the thought of poverty from his mind. 
For a long while he thought about his father, his infinitely 
vast success, the great financier he had become, and wonder¬ 
ful man he had always been. And then came recollections 
of his own sensational escapades; vulgar occasions where he 
had angered and disgraced his father beyond forgiveness; of 
the last morning they were together; their parting. And 
finally thoughts of the man he had accidentally killed, crept 
in like a chafing burr and ruffled his mind unpleasantly. 
Yet somehow as he revisioned the facts, he did not in the 
least, or had not, since learning of the man’s death, con¬ 
sidered himself a murderer. The fight had ensued at the 
cab driver’s instigation; the climax was nothing other than 
an accident—a horrible accident that could have occurred 
to most anyone. Whether a court of justice would find 
him guilty or not, failed to bother Gallop. He knew he was 


250 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


innocent in every sense of the word, and that was quite 
sufficient for his conscience. When the opportune moment 
arrived (it was a fresh decision that came to him now), and 
all his father’s requirements were successfully complied 
with, he determined to return, confess, and face the charge. 
Such an unconditional surrender would be the final test of 
his character, and Gallop was grimly sincere. 

There had been born to him partly from the story of Gran¬ 
ville Truce’s wrecked career, partly from the years of devo¬ 
tion his daughter had sacrificed, partly from his love and 
admiration of his own father, and more than all, from his 
personal failure, a firm resolution, a definite determination 
to make a success. And, realizing, as he did, that the blood 
of Charles Christopher Meredyth ran through his veins, 
Gallop knew the devil and all hell wouldn’t stop him and 
couldn’t. 

Disrupting his meditation, the echoing hoofbeats of a 
galloping horse suddenly became audible and rapidly drew 
nearer. The Sheriff of Truceville jerked his one remaining 
revolver from its holster and stepped quickly in the nearby 
closet, closing the door after him. By bending to his knees 
he was able to view the room through a rusty keyhole. 
This proved to be a valuable precaution, for with a splinter¬ 
ing kick the door that opened to the street banged on its 
hinges and into the office strode the bulky figure of Grafter 
Torso. 

A snarl baring his teeth, he drew his six-shooter, looked 
about disappointed, and then snorted in disgust. 

“Beat it, has the gringo,” he growled; “I thought so. 
Well, it’s a damn good thing for him.” Then, to curb the 
defeat of his expectations, he leveled the barrel of his 
revolver at the roll-top desk and began a fusillade. 
This amused him immensely until his supply of cartridges 
became exhausted. Then, breaking a chair over his knee for 


The: Forgotte:n City 


251 


added entertainment, he turned toward the street with de¬ 
parture in view, and was startled to find the steel tip of a 
revolver dangerously close to his stomach. A pair of cold 
eyes met his astonished gaze and, in them, Grafter recognized 
an icy gleam that was usually unhealthy for one to behold. 

“Now that you’re out of ammunition,” Gallop grinned, 
“stick ’em up, Grafter. Not a bad move or you’ll taste all 
six! And by the way, Greaser, hand over your implements 
of war. I'm sent here to collect bad men’s toys—that’s my 
hobby.” 

The bandit readily complied without a single display 
of resistance. Gallop produced a brace of chain handcufifs 
from the surface of the bullet ridden desk, and coupled 
them securely about the Mexican’s thick wrists. With this 
important factor accomplished, he gagged his prisoner with 
a bandanna neck scarf, and prodded him into the cement re¬ 
cesses of the one cell in the adjoining jail. Then he re¬ 
moved a rustic stool, the only dangerous implement, and 
locked the frame of bars with a huge key that hung from 
an iron ring on a side wall. 

“Don’t get lonesome, Grafter,” he said, “it don’t pay— 
and besides, I’ll not be far away in case you’re ill or some¬ 
thing. Remember that advice, greaser, and save yourself 
a lot of harm.” 

With that the Sherifif of Truceville looped the ring of 
keys over his arm, slammed the barrier that led to his office 
and sat himself once again at his somewhat demolished 
desk. So far the daily business had been acutely satisfying. 


Chapter VI 


With his first arrest secure behind bars of steel, Gallop 
pacified his mind and considered the future. With one 
dollar in cash to his credit, and this now occupying an other¬ 
wise vacant till in the hotel cash register, his financial surplus 
was conspicuous by its absence. It was improbable that his 
recently received deed of property could be converted into 
an actual cash asset. In a forgotten city real estate would 
be an insulting gift, he decided, and the thought of sale, 
incredible. Therefore with all said and done, he was badly 
dented if not broke. 

Accommodations, by way of living quarters, were another 
matter. While cleaning the office he had uncovered a fold¬ 
ing cot with many blankets, and a stove with all necessary 
cooking implements, in a room that adjoined the jail from 
the opposite side of his office. Here he could establish his 
residence in reasonable comfort. But how, when and what 
his appetite was to be appeased with, continued to annoy 
him. Eating being a rather compulsory occupation, he 
racked his mind for a mode of satisfaction. With money 
he could probably purchase supplies from the Mayor's 
household, but how to extract money from a citizenless city 
was another problem. And then an idea came to him. 

Shifting its intricate gears into immediate action, he 
re-entered the jail and again faced his sulking prisoner. 
The brooding Mexican scowled and rose to his feet from 
where he had been sitting cross-legged on a straw mat. 

“Well ?” he growled. 

“Very well, indeed," Gallop replied, “and now that you are 
found guilty of disturbing the peace of the citizens of Truce- 
ville, I am forced to collect a fine of twenty-five dollars, 


The Forgotten City 


253 


American money, from your person and release you. Or 
would you rather spend a similar number of days within 
these walls ?” 

It was obviously no problem for Grafter Torso. Lifting 
his beaded vest, he drew into sight a perspiration stained 
money belt. Counting out the sum in five dollar gold pieces, 
he shoved his hand through the frame of bars, and presently 
Gallop listened to the reassuring tinkle of gold against gold 
in his trousers pocket. Then he fingered his revolver and 
unlocked the strong barrier. 

“I expect you, Grafter,” he said, leveling his weapon, “to 
beat it and beat it quick. No funny business in or around 
Truceville again or I’ll hold you as a permanent guest. I 
was sent here as Sheriff for an important reason, and the 
full extent of the law is behind me. You advise your gang 
to lay low—and remember it yourself. Now I’m giving you 
one minute less than two, to get on your horse and get out 
of my sight. I hope we understand each other. Now 
beat it !” 

Cursing in a dull monotone, Grafter waived a reply 
and reluctantly complied with the firm orders. After mount¬ 
ing his sorrel mare he eyed the young Sheriff with a threat¬ 
ening stare and broke into a mirthless peal of laughter as he 
wheeled about, planted the spurs and rode away. 

When the horse and rider were out of sight, Gallop latched 
the door of his office, and proceeded down the quiet street 
toward the two-story plaster building that was the residence 
of Mayor Truce and his daughter, Pauline. In all Truce¬ 
ville, this old fashioned but rather dignified structure was 
the single exception in the scene of decay. Only by contin¬ 
ual preservative repairs may the shifting sands of the desert 
be controlled from destroying the work of man, and the 
Mayor’s home had evidently not gone without diligent care. 
To be exacting, it could have hardly served in the restricted 
district of a city, but for Truceville it was magnificent. 


254 * Darryl Francis Zanuck 

Gallop advanced down the wide veranda to the door and 
rapped on the panel. The girl, Pauline, had apparently seen 
him coming, for she greeted him almost instantly. When 
they were seated in a large front room, done in rustic wood¬ 
work and affording a mammoth open fireplace and a vast 
selection of Indian pottery, the youthful Sheriff approached 
the question that predominated his thoughts. 

“Miss Pauline,” he said (somehow the Truce part seemed 
vaguely superfluous), “now that I'm here in Truceville to 
stay, I wonder if it will be possible for me to buy provisions 
from you until I find time to visit Columbus? I’m at present 
without a horse or means of transportation, and Columbus, I 
judge, is quite a walk. Can some arrangement be made?” 

“Why, certainly, Mr. Thompson,” came the reply. “I 
thought you knew that I have a little commissary in the 
bank building next door, or I should have told you this 
morning. You see, occasionally the ranchers or cattlemen 
patronize me, and then nearly every other week, Buffalo 
Jones, the old Cabasas hermit, pays me a visit for his ra¬ 
tions. Since Truceville dropped all pretense of being a 
town, the small profit I make from the store and what vege¬ 
tables I raise by irrigation are the means of our income. 
Father invested every cent he had in the world in the future 
of his city, and even now he owns practically every building 
and inch of Truceville, but as you know, Truceville property 
is quite worthless. But,” she added, changing her candid 
gaze to a vague stare, “not so in his mind. Father imagines 
he's making thousands every year; that Truceville is what 
he built it to be. And nothing, not even poverty, will make 
him believe differently.” 

“I hope the time will come,” Gallop offered after a pause, 
“when all his dreams will really materialize. Nothing in my 
mind could be as wonderful. And, Miss Pauline, I assure 
you, in every manner possible I will strive with such a goal 


The Forgotten City 


255 


as my pinnacle. I, too, it so chances, am a property owner 
in Truceville—only of course on a much smaller basis. 
Perhaps,” this came as an afterthought, “perhaps you can tell 
me just where my property lies. As is the way with most 
sheriffs, I know little about my home town. Here is my 
deed.” 

He produced the document and handed it over. The girl, 
plainly surprised at this unexpected revelation, scanned the 
typewritten lines. Then a pretty smile played on her lovely 
features. 

“I can’t say you’ve the most magnificent site in town,” she 
declared, “but it’s surely sacred. You own the cemetery, 
Mr. Thompson, and the surrounding land. I think there are 
two shacks still standing on it—the morgue and what was 
once the Truceville Undertaking Parlors, both long since 
destroyed. Surely you didn’t buy this property with real 
money, Mr. Thompson?” The question came in an anxious 
voice. 

“No, not quite that,” Gallop answered. “It was a gift to 
equal my capacity. The guilty party has numerous reasons, 
Miss Pauline, for this benevolent expression of such a com¬ 
parison, so don’t judge him too harshly. Even tragedy, I 
once read, has a humorous viewpoint. And in this par¬ 
ticular case I, the tragedy, am no doubt affording a certain 
person the said humor. To balance the ledgers, my obvious 
duty is to make a success of the land that is the foundation 
of this comparison, and thereby turn the tables, which is, 
at this moment, easier said than done, but now (please don’t 
laugh, Miss Pauline), not as improbable as you imagine. 
Frankly, for various reasons I will either make a success in 
Truceville, or, with all due apologies, join ranks with the 
Cabasas hermit. Why I’m telling you all this to begin with 
when you’ve only seen me twice and can’t possibly care about 
my welfare in the least, is more than I know. That’s one 


256 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


of my many cultivated habits, Miss Pauline—talking too 
much. I apologize. And now for the subject of food.” 

Surpassing the wildest of expectations, Gallop was cor¬ 
dially requested to consume his rations at the Truce table 
indefinitely, and it was only after insisting to the point of 
command that he forced the Mayor’s daughter to accept a 
weekly payment of ten dollars in advance. With genuine 
reluctance, she finally succumbed to his argument and 
pocketed the two gold coins he offered. Then she men¬ 
tioned the lateness of the hour and departed for the kitchen, 
from where there presently seeped the wholesome aroma of 
cooking foods. 

It had gradually grown dark during their conversation, 
and now only a reddish glow in the West marked the sun’s 
descension behind the rugged range of purplish mountains. 
Since Pauline's retreat, Gallop had sat in meditation. Now 
he rose and stepped out on the broad veranda. His idle gaze 
traversed the lifeless street from end to end, and after a 
while settled on a bright spot in the distance that he knew 
to be the haven of Grafter’s renegades. 

This set him to wondering about the actual extent of his 
authoritative notice, and planning his next move against those 
guilty of shattering the efforts and ambitions of an honest 
man. Although he had never previously aimed at a definite 
goal, Gallop clearly understood the tragedy of failure to 
those who have injected every ounce of effort in a task, and 
resentment for Grafter’s policy burned deep within him. 

Disturbance of his thoughts came by way of Granville 
Truce, who presently appeared from the general direction of 
the hotel. When a recognition was effected, the Mayor 
waved his hand in greeting. 

“Howdy, Thompson,” he called, “thought you’d drop 
around for dinner, tonight. You were due last evening. 
But then, you can't expect a Sheriff to be on time, eh ?” 


The Forgotten City 


257 


“Nope,” Gallop replied, “that’s the way with us officials. 
We must uphold our dignity at any cost.” 

“By the way, Thompson,” evidently a new thought had 
come to the Mayor, “I forgot to ask about what you think 
of my plan to convert the one blacksmith shop we’re not 
using to a laboratory for my chemical tests. There’s a lot 
of experiments I’ve got to make before I’ll show any real 
result, and I might as well work there as anywhere. My 
implements came on the morning stage and I had Charley 
move them in. Like the idea?” 

“Why, yes,” Gallop was fully a minute in replying, “that's 
about as good a place as any.” Then, his curiosity stirred, 
he ventured a question: “Just what do you expect your 
result to be, Granville? Will it really do as you say?” 

“Do as I say ?’ repeated the Mayor, in a bewildered voice, 
“why I didn’t say anything would do anything, Thompson. 
All I've ever claimed with forty years of science and 
chemistry behind me, is that there certainly must be a 
marvelous quality in any substance that shows the vital 
results and remarkable merits, from actual tests, that have 
been displayed in this particular product. Why, already in 
my foolish meddling without proper instruments, I’ve found 
a dozen things our little discovery will actually do. And 
without exaggeration, Thompson, there’s no denying but 
what it’ll go big as a money maker. I’ve thought quite a 
bit on the subject since we had our little private talk, and 
when I’m satisfied that my beliefs are right, you and I will 
organize our little company as we decided and go right after 
this thing in a big way. Best to make it a profit-sharing 
affair after the original idea of Truceville, I think, and 
include all the citizens on a percentage basis. What say?” 

Undeniably baffled as to the identity of this extraordinary 
product, Gallop was gratefully relieved when Pauline 
appeared in the doorway at this instant and announced 


258 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


dinner. From the Mayor’s recent remarks he knew this 
certain commodity was not a mineral of any sort, and think 
as he would, he was unable to reach a conclusion concern¬ 
ing its character. However, he determined to investigate 
at an early moment and satisfy his curiosity if nothing 
else. Somehow though, there hovered about the thought 
of the old man’s sincere belief in his discovery, something 
undefinable, something greater than curiosity, which pos¬ 
sessed Gallop throughout the delicious dinner he consumed 
with much relish. 


Chapter VII 


From the moment Pauline, with a delightful smile, 
indicated Gallop’s place at the table, until they had fin¬ 
ished the wholesome meal and adjourned again to the 
spacious front room, Granville Truce assumed and held a 
silent demeanor. The vagrant expression Gallop en¬ 
countered on their initial meeting in the hotel lobby, re¬ 
turned to his eyes and about him there clung a dreamy 
atmosphere of utter resignation from worldly affairs. 

Although both Pauline and the young Sheriff made con¬ 
stant attempts, they found conversation difficult with the 
lethargic figure in their midst, and finally mutually accepted 
the taciturnity as inevitable. 

The dullness, however, was shortly doomed to diversion, 
for Pauline, quite by chance, retreated to the veranda with 
the intention of enjoying the cool evening air, and there a 
stupefying sight met her eyes. 

In a flickering halo of crimson, scarlet tongues of fire 
darted from the roof of the Sheriff’s office and illuminated 
the entire street. On the opposite sidewalk a throng of 
perhaps fifty Mexicans watched the destruction with dark 
eyes that twinkled brazenly in amusement. Beneath the 
wide brims of enormous sombreros, oily faces reflected the 
reddish brilliancy of the swiftly increasing blaze, and above 
the gradually swelling roar of burning timbers, harsh 
laughter rang out in the night air. Grafter, who stood 
nearer the flames than his henchmen, was easily recogniz¬ 
able ; the others were little more than a sea of repulsive faces. 

With a second glance, Pauline turned and fled to the 
house. In answer to a scream, Gallop met her in the door¬ 
way and one brief glance at the flaming scene of his 


260 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


rapidly demolishing office, flashed an intricate plan of action 
on a mind that should have been, according to the natural 
laws of stupidity, dumfounded. In an instant, he scented a 
rare opportunity for retribution to overtake the transgressor. 
It was a long shot, he realized, but then as terrific odds 
seemed to be his present portion, Gallop prodded his cour¬ 
age and took it. 

“No use interfering, Pauline/’ he said in a calm voice, 
“they’re twenty or more against one of us, and a fight 
would only end disastrously. No chance for the adjoining 
buildings to burn; they’re too far away, and besides, it's only 
me they want.” 

“You probably know best,” came the cold reply, “but I 
always imagined a Sheriff at least attempted to do his duty 
—even if it was necessary to kill or be killed. Perhaps I’m 
wrong, though. Anyway, the original Sheriff Darcey 
Thompson faced a hundred of them before he quit.” 

“Quite true; I agree perfectly," Gallop declared; “I saw 
his grave this morning.” 

Resentful, Pauline turned again toward the doorway. 
“Good evening, Mr. Thompson,” was all she said. 

When the barrier had closed on her boyish figure, Gallop 
ducked through a short alleyway and thence into the dense 
jungle of cactus and yucca that surrounded the town. By 
a circling detour he finally reached the sand hollow where 
was the Casino and its square of adobes. Evidently the entire 
population had pilgrimaged to the burning of his quarters, 
for with the exception of several dim lights and a howling 
dog, Gallop found the rendezvous dark and deserted. 
Swiftly he advanced toward the rear portals of the Casino, 
keeping by way of precaution in the thick shadows. Once 
there, his movements were rapid and sagacious. 

Close against the back wall, which was itself constructed 
of heavy planking, he discovered a large refuse box, piled 


The Forgotten City 


261 


high with discarded trash. This was the object he desired. 
And from the standpoint of time, it consumed not longer 
than two minutes to select a stock of dry newspapers from 
the heap of filth, twist them to a torch-like wad, raise the 
corner of the box, stuff them beneath, apply the flame of a 
match, and beat a retreat that was truly remarkable for the 
number of paces progressed before the flames soared to an 
intensity sufficient to attract attention. 

Reaching the edge of town, Gallop thought it best policy 
to avoid the throng of renegades, so he kept to the dark alley- 
ways and proceeded directly to the Mayor’s residence. The 
front room was dark, but in the rear—Pauline’s chamber 
he presumed—a light glowed. Until now his intentions con¬ 
sisted of basking in the glory of his deed, triumphing over 
her resentment and accepting proffered shelter for the night. 
But now he hesitated, and as he did, an odd bundle on the 
steps of the veranda caught his gaze. 

Under a clear ray of moonlight, Gallop read a note in 
scribbled handwriting which he found attached to the object 
he had first noticed: 

Mr. Thompson. 

Sir:—I have reconsidered my invitation. Within 
this sack are provisions to the amount of ten 
dollars, already received. 

I am sure father will be pleased to accept 
your immediate resignation as Sheriff. 

Pauline Truce. 

>Jc >j« ;|c 

From over the jagged rim of the lofty Cabasas, dawn came 
to the forgotten city of Truceville, and but one of its three 
inhabitants beheld its preliminary rays. Gallop stood over 
a small blaze he had kindled in the forge of the deserted 
blacksmith shop, and looked through the long sliding doors 


262 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


upon the scene of gray and amethyst, which, as the minutes 
passed, gradually blended to light and life. 

On an improvised mattress of straw lay his jacket, hat 
and vest; in a battered frying pan the aroma from three 
thick slices of ham permeated the chilly air with an appetiz¬ 
ing savor. Within a cleansed paint can, coffee boiled, and 
close to the red coals, a crust of fresh bread toasted itself 
to a delicious brown. 

The son of Charles Christopher Meredyth, in this first 
personal preparation of nourishment for his abdominal 
cavity, verified the contested theory that cooking, like con¬ 
suming, is an instinct, and not a habit. The breakfast Gallop 
prepared that cold dawn over a blacksmith forge in the city 
of vacant houses, will live forever in the annals of his 
private history. It was, so far, he decided, his crowning 
achievement. 

Washing down his last bite with an immense gulp of 
coffee, as he had always read true Westerners did, Gallop 
faced the labor of the day with buoyant spirits even a range 
rider might envy. His initial task consisted of a careful 
and thorough search of the premises for a trace of the instru¬ 
ments Granville Truce had mentioned in connection with his 
marvelous discovery. After calmly overlooking them for 
all of ten minutes, his eyes eventually rested on an assort¬ 
ment of delicate test tubes, vase-like bottles, and numerous 
tiny devices he knew nothing whatever about. Un¬ 
fortunately his college career leaned more in the direction of 
after-a-fashion society, than actual study, and he found, 
after a half hour’s meddling, his knowledge to be extraor¬ 
dinarily lax in chemical problems. 

Out of it all he gained but one fact: Formerly some¬ 
thing had been in the tubes and bottles; it had dried and 
evaporated. This, he decided, was not exceedingly encour¬ 
aging, so he surrendered in disgust and turned his thoughts 
to the necessary work at hand. 


The: Forgotten City 


263 


Acting on impulse he paid a brief visit to the remains of 
the fire, and found, with the exception of the cement jail, 
his quarters a total loss. Out of the charred mass of burnt 
timbers he was unable to recover anything of value, intrinsic 
or otherwise, so he turned toward his new abode again and 
was at that moment accosted by the Mayor, who greeted 
him from a distance and beckoned him. When they had 
drawn together in front of the hotel, the aged chemist 
proudly patted Gallop on his back and spoke. 

“Excellent, Thompson,” he declared, “excellent. I knew 
we could depend on you, and I guess, after last night, the 
Council will sit up and take a little notice, eh. That is, if 
they catch on.” 

“Yes, I'll admit it was fairly good,” Gallop had not even 
the slightest idea in the world what the Mayor was 
commending, “but anyone could have done just as well.” 

“Oh, I wouldn't say that, Sheriff. I’ve just looked her 
over this minute and I’ll say when you set that fire, you sure 
knew what you were doing. The whole rear burnt to noth¬ 
ing, and a good bit of the entrance. Furthermore, Sheriff, 
they don’t even suspect you. From what I just gathered 
they think it started from accidental origin. Grafter’s rais¬ 
ing hell with ’em about cigarette butts and the like. I 
would never have guessed it was you who did it, but then 
when I put the fire of your office and it together, I couldn’t 
think otherwise. Now don’t spoil it all and tell me you didn’t 
do it. You surely know how we stand—that you can 
trust me.” 

“You were right, Granville,” Gallop replied, his mind 
ruffled not a little by this uncanny display of detection, “I 
wasn’t even going to tell you, though. But now you’re on— 
it’s between us. Is that a go?” 

“Why, certainly, Sheriff—that is, with the exception of 
Pauline. But now for our little work. When do you think 


264 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


my instruments will arrive ? It’s been a month since I 
ordered them; they should have come in from El Paso 
last week/’ 

“They came last evening,” Gallop lied glibly, “I’m having 
them moved in the blacksmith shop now. They’ll be ready 
for you to begin experimenting in an hour or so. Will you 
come then ?” 

“You bet I will, Sheriff,” the Mayor answered instantly, 
“I'm all ready to shoot. And in the meantime I’m going over 
to the house and whisper the good news of the fire in 
Pauline’s ear—she, and no one else, will hear it from me. 
Well,” he added, “see you later.” 

Granville Truce nodded and continued down the street 
toward his residence. The Sheriff without a jail did not 
hesitate long. A faint idea had blossomed to a precise plan 
in his mind and he was eager to put it into action. 

Retracing his steps, he presently entered the blacksmith 
shop and immediately went to work over the ill-used assort¬ 
ment of chemical instruments and tubes. Drawing water 
from a tank, as he had for his coffee earlier in the day, he 
filled a metal tub to the brim, and set it above the direct heat 
of a blaze he hurriedly kindled in the brick forge. When it 
came to a boil, he carried it to the long table at the end of 
the shop, where were the instruments. Then, and not until 
then, did the actual work begin. 

One by one he washed the oddly shaped bottles, heavy jars 
and glass vessels. Then came tiny test tubes and devices 
not in his acquaintance. After these had been cleansed with 
effort and polished to a degree that verged newness, he 
once more searched the entire shop and discovered an 
assortment of Indian pottery, numerous packages of gran¬ 
ulated substances, a transparent still that was remindful of 
a brewery, a weighing scale for accurate measure, and an 
iron mortar and beater, which, collectively, he judged to be 


The; Forgotte:n City 


265 


necessary implements. These he washed and cleansed in 
a similar manner. Then, after scrubbing the table, which 
was evidently constructed for a work bench, and dusting 
away the thick cobwebs, he placed the varied assembly in an 
orderly array, and stood back to view his work, satisfaction 
written in the youthful lines of his countenance. 

There was a slender possibility the elderly chemist could 
be induced, under this pretense of originality, to begin anew 
his experiments where he had undoubtedly discontinued 
them previous to his affliction, and Gallop labored willingly, 
for he was determined to learn the identity of the mysterious 
discovery if it were in anyway possible. In the act of giv¬ 
ing a finishing touch to the makeshift laboratory, by way 
of a pair of rubber gloves he had heretofore overlooked, 
the light tread of footsteps sounded at the ajar doors of the 
shop, and Gallop turned eagerly, hoping to find the Mayor 
of Truceville. 

Posed in the large frame was the girl, Pauline. An 
anxious smile flushed crimson to her cheeks; embarrassment 
marked her every demeanor. 

“May I speak with you, Mr. Thompson?” she asked. 
“That is, if you’re not busy.” 

“Why surely, Miss Truce,” Gallop replied advancing to¬ 
ward her, “won’t you be seated ?” Then in the next 
breath, noting the absence of chairs: “I mean I apologize 
for my humble quarters. You see, they were unexpectedly 
occupied and as yet are hardly presentable.” 

“That’s perfectly all right. I just dropped in for a mo¬ 
ment, Mr. Thompson. After learning of your wonderful 
accomplishment from father, I feel I owe you an apology 
for my absurd, my horrible conduct last evening. And I 
want you to know that I’m really sorry, that I realize the 
blunder is all mine, that I alone am to blame, and that I 
sincerely beg your forgiveness. It was an error only a 


266 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


foolish person could possibly make. I was foolish last night 
—I am repentant now. Will you forgive me?” 

For fully a minute Gallop failed to reply. His brow 
corrugated in meditation; his bearing was one of utter 
uncomprehension. Then, his eyes blinking in a befuddled 
manner, he finally spoke. 

“Really, Miss Truce,” he declared, “I can’t imagine what 
you mean. I don’t recall any incident between us that 
deserves an apology. However, whatever it is you’ve 
apparently done, I surely accept and honor your plea.” 
Gallop forced his most pleasant smile. 

“Then you didn’t receive my note?” This came as an 
incredible question. 

“Note?” Gallop repeated; “possibly, Miss Truce, you have 
me mistaken with some one else. I can’t seem to get the 
point, or are you joking?” 

“Not in the least. Furthermore, I’m positive I haven’t 
been mistaken in anyone’s identity. I’m speaking about the 
note I sent with the provisions. Again I apologize for its 
contents. Of course, you remember now.” 

Again for a lengthy period Gallop held a befuddled 
silence. “It’s strange, Miss Truce,” he at last said, “but I 
can’t for the life of me place the incident. Note?” he 
added, frowning at his stupidity. 

“Yes—the note, the letter I pinned to the sack of supplies 
—your ten dollars’ worth of provisions. About requesting 
your resignation as Sheriff, retracting the hospitality of 
father’s house and all that childish sentiment. It’s impossible 
to think you’ve actually forgotten.” Evidently Pauline was 
becoming annoyingly perturbed. 

“It’s silly of me, I realize,” Gallop offered, “but really, 
Miss Truce, I find no memory of any such occurrence in my 
brief Truceville history. Perhaps, as I suggested before, 
you’ve mistaken me for some one else. Nevertheless, solely 


The Forgotten City 


267 


to please you, I welcome your apologies, and you may know 
whatever you've done to harm me, is surely forgiven. And 
now,” he added, with an air of finality, “if you’ll pardon me, 
Miss Truce, I must return to my work—it’s almost noon, 
and much must be accomplished before nightfall if com¬ 
fortable slumber is to be assured. Good-day, Miss Truce.” 

Her eyes flashing, the color gone from her cheeks, 
Pauline favored Gallop with a defiant glare, turned her 
back on him without a word, and abruptly departed in a 
whirl of angry emotions. It was a matter of five rollicking 
minutes before the Sheriff of Truceville was able to control 
his emotions, which rioted in merriment, and attain his 
usual serenity of mind and dignity of figure. And even then 
there hovered about his demeanor an obvious trace of jocu¬ 
larity. 

For the wayward son of Charles Christopher Meredyth, 
it might be said that life was unfolding its problems in rather 
speedy fashion. Within forty-eight hours he had been 
deserted, practically penniless in a forgotten city; accepted 
the appointment of Sheriff tendered him by its Mayor; 
received a beating; met the most gorgeous feminine creature 
imaginable; arrested a notorious renegade; witnessed the 
flaming destruction of his office; tasted the spice of revenge; 
encountered an unknown discovery of vast possibilities; 
received due apologies; returned humiliation for humiliation, 
and now, the egotism in him, as is the way with youth, 
basked in the glory of his triumph. 


Chapter VIII 


Although he waited with growing discouragement until 
mid-afternoon, Gallop’s contemplated appointment with 
Granville Truce failed to materialize. Finally convincing 
himself that the Mayor’s undependable thoughts were else¬ 
where, he strayed from the scene he had laboriously pre¬ 
pared and wandered with no fixed destination in mind. 
Presently, he emerged from the rim of the town and having 
nothing better to do, continued at a leisurely pace into the 
desert jungle of yucca and cactus. It was intensely hot, 
but Gallop seemed not to mind. The sun beat down from 
the pale New Mexico sky and in the distance created 
dazzling rows of heat waves which danced and played on the 
horizon, like the cool waters of some mountain brook. 

Mounting a sand dune, bare of thorny vegetation, Gallop’s 
idle thoughts were suddenly concentrated on a strange sight 
which met his eyes. Protruding above the sandy ridge of a 
shallow ravine hardly a hundred paces away, were the heads 
and shoulders of two Indians. In the immediate back¬ 
ground stood several crudely improvised tents; a column 
of murky smoke rose lazily and vanished in the hot air. 
The predominating figure, a squaw, aged and oily, was 
engaged at this particular moment in the act of beating her 
male companion (who sat motionless with back to Gallop), 
over the head with a sizable club. With the third re¬ 
sounding crack, the 'Sheriff of Truceville was spurred to 
assume his official capacity, and he covered the intervening 
distance at no weak gait. Tearing his way through a 
barrier of mesquite and sage brush, he drew his revolver 
and dashed headlong into the scene of the evidently one¬ 
sided affray. 


The Forgotten City 


269 


“Stop!" he cried, leveling his weapon on the squaw. 
“Stop in the name of the law.” 

The bronzed female favored him with an idle glance and 
simultaneously brought down the club once again on the 
head of the silent brave. Gallop permitted his gaze to fol¬ 
low the descending club. There it rested on a baffling sit¬ 
uation. 

Encasing the Indian's dome, in the shape of a derby hat, 
was a thick coating of dried mud; beneath the lower brim, 
which almost covered a pair of black eyebrows, a grinning 
countenance, weather beaten to a walnut crisp, peered up 
at Gallop in amusement. And as he stared in amazement, 
forgetting to press his interference, the coating of mud 
cracked under the squaw’s incessant blows, crumbled and 
finally, under pressure of her fingers, revealed a mop of dirty 
jet hair. With the assistance of the brave, she brushed away 
the remaining particles of mud, and then motioning her 
aside, the buck calmly rose, grunted, and faced Gallop. 
The squaw tossed her club to the sand and bent over a pot 
of boiling fluid from which rose an aroma strangely 
familiar to Gallop. Dazed, he fumbled for his holster and 
eventually succeeded in replacing his revolver. 

“Welcome,” the brave grunted in understandable English. 
“Me sabe you law. No us break um. Damn good Injun. 
No bootleg—no tikela. Maybe a leetle Canadian Club now 
then—no much, no harm. Sabe?” 

Grinning, Gallop nodded. “Why for?" he asked pointing 
to the thick mass of hair that hung almost to the brave’s 
shoulders. 

“All good desert Injun likeum look damn fine. Hair no 
good, come out scratchum like devil—no get good squaw. 
Fix ’em up fine—get young, fat squaw. Me fix 'em up—go 
Columbus plenty soon. Fat squaw likee good looks—me fix 
’em hair for good looks. Sabe?” 


270 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


His curiosity on edge, Gallop nodded again. Here was 
something vastly new for him. An Indian beauty parlor, 
deep in the New Mexico desert, presented unlimited possi¬ 
bilities. On the face the fact was itself incredible; but yet, 
here was the concrete proof—the baked crust of mud, the pot 
of boiling fluid, and the brave who desired plump squaws. 
Aroused, Gallop pressed for details. 

“Is this your own idea ?” he asked. “Other Indians don’t 
sabe ?” 

“All Mojava Injun know how get good hair since plenty 
years. No got bum looks. Plenty hair, damn fine, damn 
long, damn good. No fallem out like Sioux. Nb have 
lettle much like Mohegan. Me got good bunch. Me give ’em 
plenty fix. Me got squaw who sabe how. Purty soon get 
new one who sabe better.” 

At this moment the squaw grunted in a tongue foreign 
to Gallop, and without further enlightenment, the brave 
turned to where she had scooped a shallow pit in the sand. 

While Gallop looked on with more amusement than inter¬ 
est, the female emptied the hot fluid from the pot in a pail 
of what was apparently water, and proceeded to shampoo 
the brave’s head in a manner complimentary to a Fifth 
Avenue tonsorial establishment. What did actually sur¬ 
prise him though, was the remarkable appearance of creamy 
bubbles of lather from the mixture, which was itself a 
sluggish coffee-color. He was quite positive the squaw 
had not included soap in the compound, and this was pres¬ 
ently verified when she emptied the pail of bubbles and he 
observed the contents closely. 

However, it suddenly occurred to him that he was Sheriff 
of Truceville and that his interest lay in that direction, 
and not in studying the novelties connected with the washing 
of an Indian's scalp, so he called an unanswered word of 
departure to the beauty-desiring brave and retraced his 


The Forgotten City 


271 


trail through the forest of cactus toward the blotch of gray 
structures that marked the city of Truceville. 

The sun lay deep in the West when Gallop finally trod the 
deserted street and entered the gaunt portals of the black¬ 
smith shop. He was hungry and weary from the strenuous 
tramp over the sands, but before preparing nourishment he 
uncovered a step-ladder from a heap of debris and ascended 
to the loft above the forge. As he presumed, the small space 
had previously been occupied as living quarters and he found 
a folding cot in fair condition and several woolen blankets, 
which he shook and cleansed as best he could. This fin¬ 
ished he made up the bed for the night, dusted the few 
odd pieces of furniture, swept the floor and began the prep¬ 
aration of his meal. 

This important event necessitated a fresh supply of fire¬ 
wood to replenish a diminishing pile, so Gallop looked about 
for the necessary material. In the rear of the shop a huge 
stack of yucca logs, trimmed of their slender bayonet-like 
leaves, rose almost to the sheet metal roof. They were 
crisp, dry and aged, he noticed, and had apparently remained 
untouched since the blacksmithing activities of days gone 
by. Here was the necessary fuel right at hand, and so 
deciding, he dragged the nearest to the base of the forge. 
It was far too bulky for the fire pit, so he buried the rusty 
blade of an ax in the fibrous hulk with a mighty swing. 
And to his astonishment, soap-like foam bubbled from the 
torn fibers as the ax struck. Then as he bent over in 
response to an urge for investigation and fingered the center 
of the shattered log, he discovered it to be actually damp. 

Considering the fact that the yucca plant had been 
removed from its sandy origin years previous, this was 
truly surprising. He had heretofore imagined the cactus 
family to be void of moisture at all times, and that the pulp 
of this thorny desert tree could contain fluid enough to 


272 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


create wet bubbles which closely resembled soap-suds, was 
surely in keeping with all the extraordinary events and 
incidents he had thus far encountered in his Truceville 
sojourn. 

But it was not until his eyes casually shifted to the blade 
of the ax that the culmination to his discovery really oc¬ 
curred. Every trace of tarnish and rust had vanished from 
the slab of steel; it was as bright and shiny as though rest¬ 
ing behind the glass of a display counter. And Gallop re¬ 
called perfectly how rusty and dull it had appeared when 
he took it in hand only a moment past. Were miracles in 
this forgotten city never to cease, he asked himself? 

And then, as he meditated further on the topic, a dis¬ 
tinctly familiar fragrance permeated the evening air and 
irritated his nostrils. For all of a minute he sniffed about 
aimlessly, unable to locate its elusive origin. Then it sud¬ 
denly came to him like a clear voice from afar, and Gallop, 
with illuminating realization untangled the mass of conflict¬ 
ing thoughts that besieged his mind. 

The strange aroma rose from the moist foam that sat¬ 
urated the pierced fibers of the hewed yucca log. It was 
identical with the odor which hung heavy about the pot of 
boiling fluid in the Indian camp. And, furthermore, Gallop 
traced his initial recollection of it to the tubes and glass 
vessels he had so thoroughly cleansed for the Mayor’s ex¬ 
periments. The thought took his emotions by storm. 

In this lather-giving product of the desert, the chemist, 
Granville Truce, had undoubtedly discovered remarkable 
merits. It had removed rust and tarnish without apparent 
effort before Gallop’s own eyes. According to the Indian 
brave it had been employed by his tribe for centuries to 
cleanse the scalp and prevent the loss of hair. And as he 
thought about it, Gallop could not remember ever seeing 
or hearing of a bald headed Indian. The very fact that it 


The Forgotten City 


273 


was a vegetable species of the cactus clan which actually 
contained moisture, with the miraculous power to perform 
duties in various distinctly opposite channels, was enough 
to fire his mind with vague thoughts of the infinitely vast 
possibilities which the production and commercialization of 
its qualities offered. He could almost visualize Truceville 
as the thriving center of a mammoth new industry, where 
the heretofore considered worthless vegetation of the desert 
was made to perform numerous cleansing feats unequaled 
by the chemical soap creations of man. The thought held 
him in a grip of fascination throughout the preparation and 
consuming of his dinner. 

When night came to the decayed city, it found the 
doughty Sheriff at peace with the world. Gold to the sum 
of fifteen dollars reposed in his pockets; provisions for a 
period of two weeks filled his cupboard, a roof protected his 
head, and, greater still, a marvelous idea flitted about the 
chambers of his mind and played on the strands of his ambi¬ 
tion. 

And in all this mental functioning, two definite thoughts 
regarding the possible merits of the strange product were 
paramount: He had never previously beheld as rapid and 
effective a cleanser of rust, and he had never heard of a bald 
headed Indian. And therefore, relying on the mature 
bromide, “Where there is proof there is profit,” he was 
encouraged to no little extent in the thought that profit 
would mean the realization and fulfillment of Granville 
Truce’s dreams and ambitions, and bring happiness to the 
devoted Pauline. 


Chapter IX 


It was late in the forenoon when the serenity of Gallop’s 
prolonged slumber was suddenly shattered by a series of 
extremely loud and disturbing noises. Primarily, the 
thought of coyotes came to him. But as he leaped from 
his bed and peered down on the street from an oval window 
that gave light to the loft, this rash surmise was rapidly 
dispelled. An outrageous scene met his gaze. 

Circled by a score of grinning Mexicans of the Grafter 
breed, who rode painted ponies at an easy trot and carried 
more loaded belts of ammunition than anything else, a tall, 
lean-faced man of uncertain age, led a frightened pack 
animal toward the outskirts of the town, and warded off, as 
best he could, the lunging assaults of a half dozen growling 
and snarling camp dogs. No sooner would he succeed with 
one brute, than another would attack his burro from the 
rear, necessitating a swift repetition. This continued to the 
tune of boisterous laughter from the Mexicans until the 
squadron passed almost beneath Gallop’s elevated point of 
vision. And then the affair quite abruptly assumed official 
proportions for the youthful Sheriff. 

Weary and exasperated, the slender victim finally lost all 
control of his emotions as the largest and most vicious of 
the dogs succeeded in dislodging the carefully balanced pack 
on his burro’s back. From the assorted flood of supplies 
and provisions that poured to the street, he grasped a twelve 
gauge shotgun and emptied both barrels at the ferocious dog. 
With a mad, slobbering howl the brute flipped a somersault 
in midair and plunged lifeless to the sand of the street. 
Instantly echoing the thunderous double discharge, a third 


The Forgotten City 275 

shot rang out in the warm air. The remaining dogs fled 
in terror. 

A scowling greaser, whom Gallop recognized by a livid 
scar on his cheek as a member of the throng which witnessed 
the destruction of his office, shot from the hip and the hot 
lead found its mark in the shoulder of the lean-faced man. 
He stumbled to his knees and fell prone, burying his fea¬ 
tures in the coarse sand. And at this particular moment 
the Sheriff of Truceville mobilized his forces and went into 
action. 

Through the oval window he climbed, revolver in hand, 
badge on breast, and before the greasers were barely aware 
of his presence, he leaped and landed forcibly on the head of 
the Mexican who gripped the smoking pistol. The 
astonished bandit sprawled to the street, quite unconscious. 
It had meant a precarious fifteen foot drop, but the sensa¬ 
tional effect was well worth the risk. The score of gun¬ 
packing bad men were stupefied beyond resistance. Every 
last one sat rigid and trance-like, eyes blinking, mouths 
gaping. 

“Stick ’em up!” Gallop demanded, his revolver gripped in 
a steady aim, “and not a move or I’ll let 'em all go.” 

Obedience on the part of the outlaws was instantaneous 
and in harmonious unison. They were well aware the 
gringo Sheriff meant what he said, and were quite consistent 
in allowing their fallen comrade to face his fate. 

Gallop edged nearer the gradually recovering Mexican and 
relieved him of pistol and stiletto. His eyes did not leave 
the semicircle of dark faces for an instant. The dreamer, 
the carefree youth, had vanished from his make-up. He 
was through and through the grim Sheriff of Truceville, 
and evidently this was obvious, for the outlaws displayed 
little urge to fight. 

“You birds have got just one minute to beat it!” he 


276 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


growled, fingering the trigger of his weapon. “And the next 
time you pull any of this rough stuff, I’m gonna stick the 
lot of you behind bars. Saber Now beat it!" 

With the regularity of a charging cavalry troupe, the bad 
men wheeled their ponies and stabbed the tips of silver 
spurs. A moment afterwards the disturbed dust of the 
street was the only proof of their presence. Gallop turned 
to the dazed Mexican, who had managed to gain his feet. 
At the same moment the lean-faced victim rose unsteadily 
to his knees and applied a neck scarf to the flow of blood 
from his shoulder. Gallop menaced the bandit with a 
motion of his revolver. 

“Help him get inside," he said, nodding from the wounded 
man to the open doors of the blacksmith shop, “and if you 
care anything about living—go easy, greaser." 

“Thanks, friend," the injured man said to Gallop, as the 
Mexican assisted him to his feet, “I reckon Truceville has 
done got itself a real Sheriff at last—I’m plumb glad." 

When Gallop had followed the pair to the mattress of 
straw which he prepared on the first night of his occupa¬ 
tion, and the wounded man was propped in a comfortable 
position, he allowed his gaze for the first time to traverse the 
length of the shop. To his surprise, Granville Truce 
was bent in undisturbed labor over the long work bench 
where was the improvised laboratory. His interest was ap¬ 
parently concentrated on the tubes and commodities before 
him, for he was undeniably deaf to the sound and blind 
to the sight of everything else about him. 

Gallop suppressed his curiosity and turned to the bandit. 
The latter eyed him with a menacing glare. 

“Build a fire in the forge, Mex," he ordered, “and make 
it quick!" Then he stepped back and faced the bleeding 
victim. 

“Hurt bad?" he asked. 


The Forgotten City 


277 


"Just a scratch, pardner,” came the reply. “Reckon 
they’d have done for me though, if you hadn’t stepped in. I 
sure do appreciate it. Out here, you don’t meet many folks, 
and the most of ’em are like these dirty greasers. My name’s 
Tones, ’ he added. “Decent folks call me Buffalo, Buffalo 
Jones—the hermit, which I reckon is about the truth. I aim 
to play her alone—but this here time my single religion kinda 
failed me. From now on, you're my friend, Sheriff.” 

"I’ll be pleased to be,” Gallop declared. "I’ve heard Miss 
Truce mention you as one of her customers. My name’s 
Thompson, Darcey Thompson. No relation to the former 
official—just a coincidence. But now,” he added, handing 
the Mexican’s pistol to the hermit and returning his own to 
its holster, "if you'll cover the greaser, I’ll clean up that 
wound.” 

This procedure occupied the better share of half an hour, 
during which period the captive supplied frequent basins of 
warm water, and obediently complied with each of Gallop’s 
many instructions. Granville Truce remained with his 
devices at the bench, and only once did he favor the trio 
with a glance. And then it was vague and unconcerned. 

Gallop found the wound slight and only flesh deep. The 
bullet had missed the bone by an inch. He halted the flow 
of blood with a tourniquet and bandaged the shoulder as best 
he could. Then he faced the scowling bandit again. 

"I should arrest you,” he declared, with forced gruffness, 
"but for various reasons I’m gonna be lenient and let you go. 
In exchange for your dagger and gun, which you won’t need, 
I’m giving you the dead dog. You lug that mess beyond the 
city limits, greaser, or you’ll both occupy the same grave. 
Now, clear out!” 

Gallop stood under the arch of the doors until the cursing 
Mexican, with the carcass hanging over his back, had dis¬ 
appeared in the fringe of cactus at the end of the street. 


278 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


Then he approached the stray burro, which had been inter¬ 
ested elsewhere since the departure of the annoying dogs, 
and coaxed it without argument to a stall in the shack 
adjoining the shop. With this accomplished he collected the 
array of scattered provisions and piled them close to the 
mattress of straw and the amiable hermit. 

Buffalo Jones had been resting easily; now he propped 
himself up again and beamed a smile of gratification on 
his benefactor. 

‘T reckon I’ll owe you plenty in the way of thanks. 
Sheriff,” he said. “You rescued me in the nick of time, then 
you doctored me up like a regular medico, an’ now you’re 
kinda taking the place of a combination nurse an’ valet. If 
old Granville, back there," he indicated the work bench “had 
run across you a few years ago, Truceville wouldn’t a been 
the dead hole she is now. I’m not the forgettin’ sort, 
Thompson. Sometime I’ll turn a trick for you, and I’ll be 
dog-gone glad when I can. You’re genuine goods, Sheriff 
—I like you.” 

“Thanks,” Gallop replied, “it was a darn stiff proposition, 
I’ll admit." (He had read so often of the modest fiction 
hero, he determined in his personal case to reverse the 
formula.) “But then I’ve found in my brief career a Sher¬ 
iff’s office has no limitations—especially here in Truceville. 
The fewer citizens—the more need for an officer, it seems. 
Now,” he added, “if you'll excuse me for a while, Jones, I’ll 
pay our Mayor a little visit. Evidently, he’s quite unaware 
of our presence.” 

“Sure, Thompson," the hermit answered, “don't bother 
'bout me. You’ve already done a heap mor’n I deserve. 
I’ll just rest a bit. And if you get a chance, tell the old feller 
I said, ‘Hello.’ He was some man in his day. Always 
admired him—always will. Crazy or not, don’t make no 
difference to me. The damn greasers are to blame for his 


The: Forgotten City 


279 


condition—that dirty thief Grafter, an’ his gang. Wonder 
somebody ain’t shot the skunk afore this. He’s sure got it 
coinin’, if ever a body had.” 

“Yes, from what I’ve heard he’s a bad egg,” Gallop re¬ 
plied. “I imagine it would be doing this community a favor 
to scratch his name from the roll-call. If he doesn’t get me 
in the meantime, the pleasure might possibly be mine. 
However, until he performs, there’s nothing I can do.” 

So saying, Gallop proceeded to the rear of the shop and 
paused before the work bench, which was littered in con¬ 
fusing array with the instruments and vessels he had so 
neatly arranged. The aged chemist stirred a mixture of 
powder-like ingredients in a glass bowl, and turned oc¬ 
casionally to hold the compound to the light. Presently he 
weighed a portion of something or other on the accurate 
scale, tested it in a measure vase, and added it to the already 
prepared formula. Then he smiled and nodded to Gallop. 

“Everything excellent,” he declared, “coming along fine. 
Should have the first solution done by night—that is, if she 
don’t show raw. But now that you’re here,” he suggested 
as an afterthought, “we might as well check over this list of 
stuff. Chemical supply houses make errors same as any¬ 
body, you know.” 

“It wouldn’t be a bad scheme,” Gallop answered, with¬ 
out hesitation. “You name the articles, Granville, and 
I’ll check ’em off.” He fumbled in his pockets and finally 
encountered the deed to the cemetery. 

“One iron mortar and beater,” the Mayor announced, 
paying no attention to Gallop whatever. “Five test tubes. 
Three glass vessels. One hydrometer for liquid gravity 
testing. One graduate vase. One drug scale. One glass 
still. Six two-pound packages of number eleven, gran¬ 
ulated. Four eight-pound packages of number seven, triple 
strength. Two half-pound sacks of coarse, number nine C., 


280 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


and five bottles of assorted perfume extracts. I guess that’s 
about all, Tommy. It don’t look the price it costs, does 
it, eh ?” 

“No. But then it’s money well spent, and I’m glad every¬ 
thing came. And now,” Gallop stalled for further informa¬ 
tion, “how about the other stuff?” 

“What stuff?” the Mayor inquired, in a puzzled voice. 

“Why—that, that—those,” Gallop stuttered, undetermined 
as to the accurateness of his analysis regarding the desert 
foliage. 

“Oh, you mean the yucca logs, eh? Well I think we’ve 
got enough on hand here to last for this first batch. And 
if we do run out, those Injuns’ll haul us another load. If 
this thing is the success it should be, we’ll use tractors later 
on and work out a regular system. Lord knows there’s 
enough of it around here. Hauling it in will be our only 
worry. And now,” he added, “will you bring me the deadest 
log in the bunch, Sheriff? You know my deduction proved 
the older the plant, the stronger the fluid.” 

“Sure,” Gallop willingly complied. And in an instant he 
was selecting the requested commodity. When he accom¬ 
plished the task and removed a bulky log from the pile, he 
risked a suggestion. 

“Shall I chop it in two?” he inquired. 

“Yes, if you will, Sheriff,” agreed the Mayor, in the act 
of mixing a fresh chemical solution, “and then pound up the 
pulp in the mortar, as we saw the Injuns do. Better beat it 
down fine—no chance for a failure on the juice then. You 
see, Sheriff, each little fiber has millions of separate cells 
and to extract the fluid we must pierce those cells. Other¬ 
wise, we miss the valuable element.” 

It was a matter of half an hour at strenuous labor before 
Gallop succeeded in reducing the tough hulk to the required 
pulp. When he eventually concluded the necessary task, the 


The Forgotten City 


281 


iron bowl of the mortar was brimming with a brown soapy 
liquid. He placed it on the bench close to the Mayor’s 
instruments. 

“Is that fine enough, Granville?” he asked. 

“Great!” the chemist exclaimed, “and now for the real 
test. We’re right—or we’re wrong. Here goes!” Dipping 
a vase partly full of the juice, he inserted a portion in the 
hydrometer and added a delicate measure of the formula 
he had prepared. This he balanced and carefully set aside. 
Then from a sack of granulated drugs, he weighed out a tiny 
amount in a glass bowl, and injected a tube full of highly 
perfumed fluid. 

“Preservative—to keep it from spoiling,” he advised, “and 
perfume to give it a pleasant odor. Both harmless to the 
product’s quality. And now we mix them with the juice 
itself. If one dissolves in the other we’ve succeeded, 
partner.” He emptied the contents of the hydrometer into 
the bowl. With a glass beater he stirred them together; 
then raised the mixture to the light. 

“We’ve won, Thompson,” he said in a grave voice, “we’ve 
perfected one of the greatest natural products of the century. 
The desert yucca has at last come into its own. Possibly it 
will not actually grow hair as the Mojave Indians believe. 
But I can prove it will cleanse the scalp as no chemical 
soap or shampoo ever can; that it will rid the hair of 
dandruff and diseases; and furthermore that it will give an 
abundance of natural lather which has heretofore been 
impossible without the aid of chemicals, which, as you know, 
harm the scalp. Sheriff, it’s all foolishness to dig for gold 
out here on the desert, or drill for oil. Why, right on the 
sandy surface there are a thousand fortunes. Think of the 
miles of yucca and cactus a few dollars will lease—and at the 
same time don’t forget there are many other products 
besides hair tonic and soapless shampoo that can be made 


282 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


from the supposedly worthless cactus family. For instance: 
Hemp rope, varnish, grease remover, metal cleanser, and 
all those by-products we've meddled with. Why, Thompson, 
we can build Truceville to one of the largest commercial 
centers on the border by our little discoveries. And you 
know that’s always been my amibtion, and it always 
will be.” 

"It’s wonderful to think you’ve accomplished all this, 
Granville.” Gallop was somehow unable to include himself 
in the credit award. "And now that it’s perfected, I don’t 
see what can hold us back, do you?” 

"Money—that’s all. Sheriff,” came the answer. "You 
know I’ve invested practically every penny I have in Truce¬ 
ville, and to really produce our products as they should be 
produced, will take thousands of dollars. We must convert 
this shop into a factory and complete laboratory; install 
specially designed machines; employ expert mechanics and 
chemists; induce the Santa Fe to build us a branch rail¬ 
road ; establish a bottling works and systematize our output; 
advertise nationally and have scores of salesmen covering 
the country. Yes, old man, there’s much to be done if we 
are to succeed. It’s one thing to discover a really valuable 
product—and another to sell it.” 

"Perhaps we can incorporate and sell stock,” Gallop 
eagerly suggested, overwhelmed by the limitless possibilities 
in the vast plan of production the elderly Mayor outlined. 
"With such development there is sure to be a great financial 
profit. It seems to me a bank would back us—that is, if they 
weren’t too conservative.” 

"I think to incorporate and sell, or form a private company 
with our citizens as stockholders, is the best plan,” 
advised the chemist; “of course a private company is much 
more desirable than a free-for-all outfit. But I doubt if we 
can raise the necessary cash in Truceville. We’ll need at 


The Forgotten City 


283 


least ten or twelve thousand dollars to begin with. If there 
was just some friend we knew who had it to invest, every¬ 
thing would work out fine. Then Truceville would boom 
and grow to a model commercial center, and prosperity 
would flourish—just like I always dreamed and planned, 
and prayed.” 

“If you’ll accommodate me, friends,” a familiar voice 
startled both Gallop and the Mayor, “I'll take a flyer on your 
darned idea. Here’s my word and hand for ten thousand 
Yankee dollars. They’re in the bank at Columbus, too.” 

Buffalo Jones, angular, lean-faced and gaunt, stepped up 
to the bench and offered his hand. “Got lonesome back 
there,” he apologized, indicating the mattress at the front 
of the shop; “hope there ain’t no harm done by me over- 
hearin’ this a-way.” 


Chapter X 


In the week that succeeded the formation of a certain 
Nature’s Products Company (for the profitable purpose of 
producing salable commodities from desert plants—chiefly 
Yucca Tonic and Shampoo), numerous transformations oc¬ 
curred in and about the forgotten city of Truceville, and to 
its sparse population. To the relief of all concerned, Gran¬ 
ville Truce was more his former self than at any time since 
the pitiful inception of his affliction. There were, to be 
sure, brief occasions when he lapsed to a vague, listless 
mood and apparently lost all interest in the progress of his 
experiments. But, collectively, his time was earnestly spent 
in serious discussion or devoted to new study and chemical 
analysis, and both Buffalo Jones, who remained to assist in 
the development of the enterprise, and Gallop, who entered 
into the enterprise with the eagerness of his years, were 
exceedingly satisfied. 

Under a barrage of more or less curious questions, the 
hermit confessed heretofore unsuspected incidents in his 
supposedly calm and uneventful life. Reared on the desert, 
he had loved it since youth. Not with that momentary 
fascination which comes to the adventurer or fortune 
hunter, but with a passionate devotion, an honest respect 
for every grain of its heated sand, each blade of its thorny 
cactus, every inch of its glorious vastness. Its broad level 
mesas, its low rolling dunes, its mighty mountains were a 
vital part of his very existence. He was, it might be said, 
of the desert, for the desert, and by the desert. 

When but a mere youngster he had followed in his 
father's footsteps and traversed the mountains and plains 
in quest of gold. Prospecting had failed him until he finally 



The Forgotten City 


285 


struck a rich vein in the Rockies in 1900. For two solid 
years he had worked it, banked his profit, and then again 
the desert had beckoned. To a quiet ravine at the base of 
the Cabasas he had come, perfectly contented to spend the 
remainder of his life in the solitude of the magnificence 
which circled him. The rise and fall of Truceville he had 
watched with the idle interest of one unconcerned. The 
founder had become his friend; the girl, Pauline, an ac¬ 
quaintance. And now he had invested his savings in the 
products of the yucca plant, not because it offered an 
opportunity to further his riches, but for the fulfillment of 
two distinct desires: Primarily it afforded ample repayment 
to the Sheriff of Truceville for his timely aid; but above 
everything it meant the development of a genuine desert 
product. And that was the deciding point. Where the 
interest of the desert lay at stake, Buffalo Jones was, by 
birth and instinct, vitally concerned. 

And thus it occurred on the seventh existing day of the 
Nature's Products Company that the hermit gold miner fixed 
his scrawling signature to a Columbus notary’s contract 
which legally bound him in a mutually agreed proposition 
to the party of the first part, Granville Truce, and to the 
party of the second part, Darcey Thompson. 

Following this important action, which took place in a 
law office not far from the bullet riddled Columbus 
drug store, the officials of the Nature’s Products Company 
(incorporation papers already filed) proceeded to the West¬ 
ern Union office, where a period of time was consumed in 
sending telegrams to various manufacturers of special ma¬ 
chines, necessary devices, and intricate instruments. J he 
elderly chemist had previously prepared lengthy letters and 
descriptive orders, which, under the supervision of Gallop, 
were typed and mailed to already selected supply firms. 
This was followed by half an hour at the one and only 


286 


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hardware store, where metal tubs, sharp bolo knives, and 
numerous necessary trifles were purchased. 

It was rapidly verging on dusk when they climbed into 
the dilapidated recesses of a single horse rig, which was the 
property of the Mayor, for the return trip to Truceville. 
His work of the day concluded, Granville Truce drifted 
away in a lethargic mood. Buffalo Jones lazily clamped 
his feet to the brace rod and puffed in silence on the stem 
of an odorous corn-cob pipe. Gallop took the reins in a 
firm grip and with the crack of a whip, the Nature’s Prod¬ 
ucts Company rode off in a golden sunset toward the scene 
of their future activities. 

* * * 

A pale moon lay high in a star-clustered sky when the 
Sheriff of Truceville drew the noisy rig to a halt be¬ 
fore the Mayor’s residence in the forgotten city. Bidding 
his partners good night (Buffalo had previously accepted 
the hospitality of the Truce home where his healing wound 
could receive more care and attention, while Gallop, for 
reasons best known to himself, persistently offered imagi¬ 
nary excuses), our hero departed for his quarters at the end 
of the vacant street. 

Since leaving Columbus he had meditated quite seriously 
on his future and the great opportunity his share in the 
enterprise involved. Here he was, within ten days of his 
abrupt appearance as an ostracized person on the Truce¬ 
ville thoroughfare, the Sheriff of the community, the 
vice-president and production manager of a hundred thou¬ 
sand dollar corporation, and completely in love with a girl 
whose friendship he had spurned simply for the trivial 
sake of an abused vanity. This latter had been one 
glorious moment of triumph while it lasted, but now that 
he thought of her more and saw her less, he recognized his 
rash blunder, but as yet he had found no plausible excuse 


The: Forgotten City 


287 


by which a reconciliation could be effected. In their in¬ 
frequent encounters of late, Pauline had calmly passed him 
with utter disregard, as though he were invisible, and unable 
to dissolve the false proportions of his pride, Gallop had 
maintained a similar attitude. It was, to say the least, both 
embarrassing and annoying, yet neither would bend in 
condescension. 

As he neared the blacksmith shop, Gallop forced his 
thoughts from Pauline and reviewed the events which 
marked the swift advancement instigated by his revival of 
Granville Truce’s former plans. Already a dozen Indian 
braves had contracted to furnish a daily supply of yucca 
logs, while their squaws were to deliver fifty pieces of 
baked and painted pottery each week. As a unique and 
original manner of presentation, Gallop had conceived the 
idea to use Indian pottery as containers for their product 
instead of bottles, and both Buffalo and the Mayor had 
readily commended the plan. It typically suggested the 
primeval origin of the yucca juice, and was quite as cheap 
as the more ordinary bottles. From occasional phrases 
dropped by the Mayor, Gallop learned the Mojave Indians 
had used the solution on their hair in a crude form for cen¬ 
turies. What had baffled him on his encounter with the 
squaw-desiring brave was now obvious. The Indians boiled 
the yucca pulp to a thick fluid, applied it to their scalps, then 
as a precaution to prevent the entry of evil spirits which 
they believed would surely ruin the completed effect, they 
sealed their domes in a cast of mud which was allowed to 
dry and remain intact for several days. These facts Gallop 
verified by a visit to the near-by camp, where he conversed 
on the subject while arranging for the yucca and pottery 
supply. The chemical end he left almost entirely to the 
Mayor—what interested him most was the actual production 
and the merchandising possibilities. He recalled the words 


288 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


of Granville Truce: “It’s one thing to discover a valuable 
product—and another to sell it,” and therefore chose the 
difficult performance as his own. 

As Gallop slid open the portals of the shop and applied 
the flame of a match to a candle that stood on the rim of 
the forge, a delightful vision of a mammoth factory of vast 
capacity, a thriving commercial city and an internationally 
successful product played on his youthful imagination—and 
then the disheartening sight the flare of the candle revealed, 
shattered the illusion in an instant:— 

From the improvised laboratory to the ladder which rose 
to the loft, every serviceable object had been violently 
crushed, torn or wrecked beyond repair. The delicate de¬ 
vices and glass vases were reduced to a crumbled mess on 
the dirt of the floor; the recently arrived contingent of 
pottery had been smashed and scattered in all directions; 
the few pieces of furniture were broken and trampled to 
scrap wood; even the work bench had been splintered by 
the blows of an ax, and the ax itself, nicked and dulled by 
forceful contact with a stone boulder, had been left behind. 

The smile that had faintly curved the lips of the Sheriff 
of Truceville quickly vanished, as his astonished gaze set¬ 
tled on the scene of hopeless destruction. The fingers of his 
right hand beat a nervous tattoo on the leather flap of his 
holster. The color gradually faded from his cheeks; his 
teeth ground in an audible gnawing. And then once again 
the son of Charles Christopher Meredyth went into action. 

Twenty minutes later he inconspicuously entered Grafter 
Torso’s Casino and Saloon, and proceeded unrecognized to 
a spot near the center of a crowded bar. The dive was 
packed to the doors with an assorted throng of greasy Mexi¬ 
cans and pale faced denizens of the bad-man breed. A bevy 
of repulsive females flitted singly from one table to 
the next or danced with prospective customers on a small 


The Forgotten City 


289 


sawdust floor, to the tune of a jingling piano. Thick clouds 
of tobacco smoke hung foul in the stuffy atmosphere and 
the odor of rotgut, combined with the stench of perspira¬ 
tion, prevailed to a nauseating degree. Bent over a spinning 
roulette wheel, was the oily proprietor—his jacket removed, 
his vest unbuttoned, a fat cheroot protruding from his 
mouth. 

Turning sideways to command a wider view, Gallop drew 
his revolver, aimed at the plank floor, and pulled the trigger. 
Following the echo of the thunderous report a dead silence 
gripped the hall. Those nearest the smoking revolver edged 
warily away. Grafter reached for his pistol, but that was as 
far as he got. 

“Careful!” Gallop warned, “Fm aiming right at your belly, 
Grafter, and my fingers might slip.” Then without chang¬ 
ing either position or gaze, he continued in a loud, deliberate 
voice to the crowd in general. “You’re now looking at the 
Sheriff of Truceville,” came his words, “and whoever’s 
figuring on reaching for a gun had better take a good look, 
’cause this’ll be the last time they see me—or anybody! 
Sabe ? I’m here to lay down the law, lay it down to a herd 
of dirty greasers who should have been buried years ago. 
And particularly I’m here to advise you, Grafter Torso, that 
you’ve got just twenty-four hours to pack your grip and 
fly! I’m backed by state troops if I need ’em, and this 
dump’ll close its doors in ten minutes or the regulars will 
start from Columbus. Sabe? Truceville has begun its come¬ 
back, and that means it’s time for you birds to show up 
missing. Now stand back, you saps; I’m gonna stick my 
gun away and walk out of here without being molested. If 
anybody so much as tries to stop me, Uncle Sam’s cavalry 
will be here before dawn. And if I’m not back in Truce¬ 
ville presently—that’ll mean you birds have got me, which 
is the same as if I sent word to Columbus myself. Now get 
out of my way !” 


290 


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Thrusting his revolver in its holster, Gallop strode toward 
the entrance. The crowd parted and fell back before his ad¬ 
vance. When he reached the front of the hall, so far un¬ 
hindered, he turned his back abruptly on the silent throng— 
and then a square-necked gin bottle spun through the air 
and struck his head with a resounding crash. 

His knees sagged; he staggered and then plunged head¬ 
long to the sawdust of the floor, where he lay motionless 
in a quickly forming pool of crimson. It had been Gallop’s 
one slender opportunity to retreat uninjured and victorious, 
and the risk had been in vain. 


Chapter XI 


When the Sheriff of Truceville finally regained conscious¬ 
ness and was able to lift the sagging lids from his eyes and 
blink them to focus a blurred vision, he found himself bound 
and gagged, and lying flat on his back in a dingy four- 
walled adobe. The room was dimly illuminated by a candle 
which flickered a halo of yellow from the ledge of a fire 
pit. Squatted in Indian fashion near a barred door was 
the Mexican with the livid scar on his cheek. Across his 
arms rested a rifle of high caliber; a snarl curled his lips 
and revealed an irregular row of cinnamon tinted teeth. 
He eyed the slow recovery of the victim intently. 

Gallop was unable to function his mental perception ac¬ 
curately. His head throbbed incessantly under the pain of 
a nasty gash from which blood trickled and clotted his hair. 
He faintly recalled his defeat and cursed himself for the 
blunder in attempting to bluff the lawless renegades—it had 
been a fool’s paradise while it lasted. Now he paid for it 
with blood, if not his life. 

The greaser rose to his feet and pounded the butt of his 
rifle against the thick door. Presently the barrier swung 
on leather hinges and displayed the six-foot frame of the 
bandit leader poised in the arch. Grafter laughed in a harsh 
tone and stepped into the halo of candle light. 

“Sheriff,” he mocked, folding his arms across his chest 
and riveting a twinkling gaze on Gallop, “Sheriff—that’s 
funny, that’s funny. So I’m to beat it in twenty-four hours, 
am I—close the casino in ten minutes. Well I guess by 
now you sabe who’s won—and in less than an hour you’re 
gonna feel who’s won. Feel it so damn hard you’ll never 
be able to forget. I’ve played with you too long as it is. 


292 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


Now I'm gonna ooze in a little medicine, sabe? I’ve looked 
you up, gringo. You’re no Sheriff—and you never were or 
ever will be. If you see daylight again you’ll be damn 
lucky—and it won’t be my fault. Now get on your feet, 
pronto!” 

Until the facially disfigured greaser assisted him, Gallop 
remained motionless on the floor. Then he gripped the 
Mexican’s arm, stumbled to his knees and finally succeeded 
in staggering to a pair of wobbly legs. 

“Take him out to the stall, Lopez,” Grafter commanded 
his helper. “We'll meet you mucho pronto.” Replying 
with a nod Lopez fastened a vise-like grip about Gallop’s 
arm and presently the Sheriff of Truceville found himself 
being propelled at a determined pace through the moonlit 
darkness of the night. 

Hardly an hour afterwards the decaying houses that 
edged the slumbering thoroughfare of the forgotten city, 
looked out upon a strange sight. Between two trotting 
lines of boisterous, mocking horsemen, a lone figure, 
stripped of shoes and stockings, stumbled along in the dust 
at the jerking end of a rope lariat which was drawn taut 
from the horn of a bronco saddle. 

Blindfolded, gagged and bound securely by horsehair 
handcuffs, Gallop found progress almost beyond the limits 
of endurance. The pain from his wound had increased tre¬ 
mendously ; the rope that dragged him on and on, cut deep 
into the flesh of his arms and burned raw the skin from his 
chest. His feet bled from the jagged stab of stone boulders 
and painful thrusts of thorny cactus. Once he tripped over 
the log of a yucca and fell among the bayonet-like blades. 
Without a pause, the rope brutally jerked him to his feet 
and dragged him on at a more rapid gait. 

Finally, after a strenuous mile of merciless repetition, a 
dense mantle of dullness flooded Gallop’s mind, and with it 


The; Forgotten City 


293 


came welcome numbness to his bleeding limbs and torn 
feet. The laughing, snarling horsemen appeared distorted 
to his blurred vision; the cactus, the vegetation, the sandy 
dunes, lost their natural contour—and then unconsciousness 
relieved his misery, and the bruised and battered body of the 
Sheriff of Truceville sunk listlessly to the sand in a blood 
saturated heap. 

“Cut the rope an’ leave him, Lopez,’’ Grafter advised. 
“We’ll be returning, sabe?” The mounted squadron 
wheeled their ponies and galloped off toward a horizon of 
amethyst as the pearl tint of dawn painted the Eastern sky 
with vivid rays. 

* * * * 

Realization that he was yet alive came to Gallop quite 
suddenly, and also quite unexpectedly, and left him as 
suddenly. Surely that had been the horrible end out 
there on the desert. But, no—for, far in the distance, the 
babbling trickle of clear water was plainly audible, or at 
least he imagined it was. Yes, that was it—his imagination. 
He was dead, a corpse, undoubtedly cold and gaunt, but yet 
that imagination of his, that dreamer’s viewpoint, lived on 
and on. No, he was wrong, it wasn’t an illusion after all— 
it was actually water. He felt it now—on his forehead, 
cool, delightful, invigorating. Someone was bending over 
him, that was it, bathing his wounds, nursing the life back 
into his weary, dead body. The figure was fittingly vague 
at times, like a dim mirage—then it exaggerated beyond 
natural proportions to some grotesque form of hideousness. 
Why didn’t he speak to it? He was a Sheriff, wasn’t he? 
Where was his badge, his gun? He’d show that freakish 
monster it couldn’t drown him! He’d shoot it and smash all 
those little Indian bowls, you bet he would! He was Sheriff 
of Truceville—funny, was it? Well, yes, it was funny—the 
monster with the cactus thorns growing from its head was 


294 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


right. But they couldn’t drown him this way. He’d lick 
’em—he’d swim back ! 

The phantom curtain lifted from Gallop’s eyes and his 
mind cleared away the tangled mass of preposterous appari¬ 
tions which mingled together in wild unison. The girl, 
Pauline, was in the act of bathing his brow with a wet 
towel. He was lying prone on the straw mattress in the 
blacksmith shop. Outside through the partly open portals, 
it was daylight. Early, though, he presumed, for there was 
not a trace of the inevitable sun. Had it all been a fright¬ 
ful nightmare, he dazedly wondered; a fantastic illusion ? 
No, it had actually occurred, for there were the shattered 
tubes and instruments, the broken pottery, and all that. But 
why, why was she here? Didn't she hate him? Ignore him? 
Surely it must be a distorted dream. 

“If you just lie still a moment longer,” she said, “I’ll 
finish the last bandage.” And then : “Are you comfortable, 
Mr. Thompson?” 

“Why, why, yes, Pauline,” Gallop heard himself stutter, 
“but I don’t understand. How did I—?” 

“They left you unconscious out on the desert, Mr. Thomp¬ 
son, near the Indian camp,” Pauline interrupted. “The 
brutes, the murderers! I think they thought you were dead. 
Anyway, they didn’t expect you to live—of that, I’m cer¬ 
tain.” 

“But where is your father—and, and Bufifalo Jones?” 
Gallop found the incidents of the night returning to him 
swiftly. The baffling details of his rescue presented the real 
problem. 

“I haven’t risked leaving you to wake them yet,” came 
her reply. “When you’re feeling better, I’ll run over to the 
house and tell them what’s happened. They don’t know 
about this,” a nod indicated the demolished laboratory, “or 
about your fight. I didn’t tell them last night, Mr. Thomp- 


The Forgotten City 


295 


son. I—I wanted to see what you’d do alone—without their 
aid. I’m sorry now, though. I should have told them when 
they returned from Columbus. Possibly I could have saved 
you all these injuries.” 

‘ Then you, alone, rescued me?” This came as an incred¬ 
ulous question. 

“From my window, I waited to,—well to see just what 
you’d do when you found the shop mutilated. I had seen 
Grafter and his outlaws do it an hour before. So when you 
left in the direction of the Casino, I saw you go. After a 
while I dozed off and fell asleep. The sound of hoofbeats 
woke me. In the moonlight I saw them, Grafter and his 
horrible gang, dragging you barefooted toward the desert. 
A fear seized me. I was already dressed—so I quietly 
slipped out of the house to the stall and saddled up father’s 
horse. The greasers made a lot of noise and it wasn’t dif¬ 
ficult to follow them. When they finally stopped, I hid in 
the brush till they were gone; then I found you, and brought 
you here. It was a mean trick on my part, not to have told 
father and Buffalo the minute they came home. It’s foolish 
I realize, Mr. Thompson, for me to say I’m sorry—but 
nevertheless, I am, I surely am.” 

A pause of silence, then : “You’ve nothing, Pauline, noth¬ 
ing in the world to be sorry for,” Gallop declared. “Regard¬ 
less whether your father knew or not, I’d have gone to 
the Casino—nothing could have stopped me. I’m bull¬ 
headed, I guess. And, Pauline, I—I don’t know what to say 
or what to do, to show you how much I really appreciate 
what you’ve done for me. Why, I’d be lying out there yet if 
you hadn’t come—probably dead by now, Pauline.” And 
then: “Are my injuries serious?” he asked, “or is it just 
my darn old imagination?” 

“I’m positive there are no broken bones,” Pauline an¬ 
swered. “But your head is cut badly, Mr. Thompson, and 


296 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


your ankles and feet are in terrible condition. Fve removed 
all the cactus thorns and bandaged them as best I could. If 
you’re comfortable now, I’ll wake Buffalo and father. One 
of them can drive to Columbus for a doctor.” 

“I’d much rather have your company than a doctor’s.” 
Gallop smiled with effort. “But I will admit at this moment 
I’m not by far the most able-bodied person in the world. 
However, there’s no need waking them so early, Pauline. 
Talk to me a while longer, if you will? It seems to sort of 
ease the pain.” 

In the distance the jingling clatter of steel and thumping 
of many hoofbeats suddenly filled the air, and as Pauline 
and Gallop held tense, rigid poses, the racket swelled in 
volume until the unmistakable din, as of many persons dis¬ 
mounting, sounded close at hand. Presently, a familiar 
voice rose above the noise: 

“I tell you I’m not mixed up in this mess, Captain.” It 
was obviously Grafter Torso who spoke. “I’ve been running 
my place accordin’ to law. Not a drop of liquor did you 
find anywhere about me. But, as I’ve told you, this fellow 
who hangs out here is the guilty bird. I’ve suspected he 
was smuggling for a couple of weeks. Some of the boys 
showed up drunk and told me they bought it here. Bet 
you’ll find a supply now. But not him, Captain, nope—not 
that clever bird. I saw him ride toward Mexico early last 
night. Somebody must have tipped him off you were gonna 
pull a raid, eh?” 

In the blacksmith shop at this moment, stepped a grim, 
gray haired individual, garbed in the uniform of a United 
States Cavalry Captain. At his heels tagged Grafter, and 
then behind the swaggering bandit, a squad of khaki clad 
troopers. Literally paralyzed by the rash fabrication they 
had overheard, neither Pauline nor Gallop were capable of 
fully comprehending the situation. 


The Forgotten City 


297 


Surprised at the discovery, the Captain fixed them with an 
official glare. “What does this mean ?” he demanded, and 
then before they could reply, added: “You’re both under 
arrest until this investigation is concluded.” 

“I’m a lawful citizen of Truceville, Captain,” Gallop de¬ 
clared, recovering from the blow of Grafter’s startling ac¬ 
cusation. “And I'm only alive because that lying outlaw, 
Grafter Torso, made a mistake when he thought his bandits 
had killed me! Look at him now, Captain!' See the proof 
written all over his face. He lied to you—and he tried to 
get me out of the way so he could lay the blame for his 
deeds at my feet. I know him and his dirty gang only too 
well!” 

“That’s him, Captain!” the bandit cried, swiftly secreting 
his astonishment at finding the annoying Sheriff alive. “He’s 
the bird you want—the guilty smuggler! I guess I don’t 
have to tell you he’s lying about me. I expected he’d try to 
frame me, all along. Better pull a gat on him—he’s dan¬ 
gerous.” 

“Never mind what I’d better do,” the Captain advised. 
“I’m running this affair. Both of you answer my questions— 
and in the meantime, shut up!” He turned and eyed Paul¬ 
ine. “Who are you?” he asked, “and what have you been 
doing here?” 

“I’m the daughter of Granville Truce, founder of this 
town,” she answered. “I saw Grafter and his gang torturing 
Mr. Thompson last night, and since then I’ve been nursing 
him back to life.” 

“That’ll be all for now, miss.” The Captain momentarily 
dismissed her and faced Gallop. “So you’re a liquor smug¬ 
gler, are you ?” he questioned. 

“I most certainly am not!” declared Gallop. “All the 
liquor that’s drunk in this town is sold over the bar in 
Grafter’s Casino. And if anybody’s smuggling it in, it’s him 
or his crew.” 


298 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


“You lie!” shouted the bandit, with a brilliant attempt at 
indignation. “The Captain has already searched my Casino 
and found not a drop. Everybody knows you’re guilty. 
Why try to frame me ?” 

“Shut up!” the captain interrupted. “Not another word 
out of either of you.” Then he turned to a non-commis¬ 
sioned officer who stood nearby. “Search the place, Ser¬ 
geant,” he commanded. “Every last inch!” 

This duty speedily progressed in orderly fashion until 
the Sergeant mounted the ladder that rose to the loft. After 
a brief inspection he descended and saluted his superior 
officer. 

“Sir,” he reported, “there are five sealed cases in the loft. 
Each is marked as containing bonded whiskey.” 

Waving a reply, the Captain turned to Gallop. “Do 
you live here ?” he inquired in a harsh voice. 

“Yes, sir,” Gallop promptly answered, “but I did not put 
that liquor up there. And also I didn’t have the slightest 
idea it was there. I realize it looks bad for me, Captain, and 
although I’m absolutely innocent, I wilfully submit to arrest.” 

“Like hell you do!” A new voice, coming from the open 
doors of the shop, vibrated the air with the force and deter¬ 
mination of its tone. “That is—not without an argument!” 


Chapter XII 


It impressed Gallop, as he quickly turned and stared at 
the recent arrival, that Buffalo Jones was making a specialty 
of these dramatic appearances—and so far, he recalled, they 
had proved most welcome. The Cavalry Captain was the 
first to speak. His indignation blended to admiration, as 
he looked twice and recognized the lanky figure in the 
doorway. 

“Well I’ll be hanged!” he exploded, “if it isn't old Buffalo 
Jones himself; son of the greatest trooper that ever lived. 
Step right in and join us, you mangy old reprobate. But 
here,” he added, in the next breath, “I’m losing myself. 
What’s all this about an argument ?” 

The lean-faced hermit advanced to the forge and planted 
himself on the brick rim. Lazily he drew forth his inevitable 
corn-cob pipe, and after slowly filling the mahogany-stained 
bowl, applied a match. Then he grinned and eyed the 
Captain. 

“Ain’t seen you for a dog’s age, O’Donnel,” he calmly 
declared; “not since the days when dad and you rode with 
the "Seventh’ and ran old Geronimo out of Arizona. Those 
were the real days, eh? How are you, anyway?” 

“Never felt better in my life, Buffalo,” the officer 
answered, “but a minute ago you said this booze smuggler 
here,” he indicated Gallop, ""wasn’t going to submit to 
arrest without an argument. I don’t understand. Do you 
know him?” 

‘"Slightly—I work for him, O’Donnel,” Buffalo yawned. 
"‘He’s vice-president of the Nature’s Product Company— 
I’m only the treasurer. Hope to get promoted if I work 
hard, though.” 


300 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


“For your sake, I’m sorry, Buffalo," said the Captain, 
“but we’ve got the goods on him. Smuggled whiskey in 
from Mexico. Found five cases of it hid up above in the 
loft. Hate like the devil to hear he’s your friend, old man.” 

A period of tense silence, then: “Care if I ask a question, 
or two, Cap?” placidly inquired the hermit, puffing billows 
of odorous smoke in the sultry air. “Seein’ as he’s in a tight - 
jam—an’ also seein’ as Miss Truce, there, is my pardners 
daughter—I oughter have a word or two. What say ?” 

“Ask what you like, Buffalo,” came the answer, “but I’m 
afraid it’s no use. It looks pretty bad for him—finding the 
stuff right where he lives. But then, as I said, you’ve my 
permission to say what you please.” 

“Who told you Mr. Thompson was smuggling?” The 
question was directed at the Captain himself. 

“Why, Grafter tipped us off. You see, Buffalo, we knew 
the stuff was coming across the line pretty frequently down 
this way, and we guessed it was Grafter. So we staged a 
raid on his Casino an hour ago—and didn’t find a drop, 
anywhere. I grilled him, and he finally confessed that his 
crowd were buying it up here in the blacksmith shop from 
a stranger. The evidence is up in the loft right this minute. 
Thompson would have admitted his guilt if you hadn’t 
stopped him, Buffalo.” 

“Thanks, Cap,” the hermit declared, “that’s point number 
one in favor of the defense. Grafter tells you who’s doin’ 
the smuggling. Why? Because he, an’ nobody else, is 
guilty. Now for point number two.” Impassionate, free 
of agitation, Buffalo shifted his eyes to the bandit, who had 
apparently lost a bit of his confidence and blustering self- 
reliance. 

“I’ve heard every word since you and O’Donnel arrived,” 
he informed, “so there’s no use lying to me, Grafter. And 
now I want to know why you destroyed the plain proof of 


The: Forgotte:n City 


301 


honest labor in this shop; why you tried to kill Thompson 
in cold blood, and why you planted your smuggled liquor 
up in the loft, if you aren’t guilty? You don’t need to 
answer—I’ll do it for you, an’ I’ll tell God’s truth.” 

For a moment a cynical smile played on the hermit’s 
gaunt features. Then the smile changed to an expression 
of loathing and he continued, his voice a menacing growl: 

“You knew Thompson was eventually gonna run you out 
of Truceville, Grafter. You sabe’d it purty pronto. So 
you figured, when some rat tipped you off about O’Donnel’s 
raid, that you’d hide your own supply under your enemy’s 
roof, then bump him off, so as he’d not get it, or be able 
to defend himself. You hoped O’Donnel’s troopers wouldn’t 
find it—but if you did have to lay blame on Thompson to 
save your own hide, you had a great alibi. Booze found— 
stranger gone; O’Donnel’s got your liquor—but you’ve got 
rid of an enemy. It w r as damn clever, Mex, but you’re 
due for a slip-up right pronto. That’s point number two, 
Cap. Now for the next.” 

Buffalo calmly refilled his pipe before continuing. When 
it was lit, he turned to the officer again. “O’Donnel,” he 
said, “according to Miss Truce, daughter of the founder 
and Mayor of this city, she saw Grafter’s gang demolish 
this shop yesterday afternoon, when her father, Thompson 
and me, wuz in Columbus. Also she says she saw Grafter 
an’ his outlaws try to murder Thompson last night. One 
look at the shop proves it’s been smashed, an’ one look at 
Thompson proves he’s about half dead now. So I reckon 
she’s tellin’ the truth. Puttin’ everything together kinda 
makes it look bad for Grafter. Don’t it, Cap?” 

“Well, I don’t know as it does, Buffalo,” replied the officer, 
“your yarn sounds probable enough. But there’s no real 
concrete evidence. That is, other than what’s in the loft. 
No, old man, we’ve got to have proof.” He nodded to the 


302 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


non-commissioned officer. “Sergeant,” he ordered, “place 
this man Thompson under arrest—charged with smuggling 
—and hold Miss Truce for further investigation. Sorry old 
man,” this was meant for Buffalo, “but your dad would 
have taken the same action. Duty goes a long way with us 
of the ‘Seventh/ you know.” 

“Just a minute, though, O’Donnel,” interrupted the her¬ 
mit, rising and knocking the ashes from his pipe, “just a 
minute, now, I ain't half done yet. Why, Cap, I ain’t even 
showed you the proof an’ evidence yet. An’ you don’t 
wanta go without that, do you?” 

“What do you mean—proof and evidence?” 

“I mean I got the genuine goods on that dirty rattler, 
Grafter. Have your men bring down the cases o’ booze 
from upstairs, O’Donnel, as a personal favor, have ’em 
bring ’em down now.” 

Without a moment of hesitation, the officer spoke to his 
subordinate. “Order the squad to remove that liquor, 
Sergeant,” he commanded. “Have them pile it here.” 
“Here” was defined by a gesture indicating the dirt floor of 
the shop. 

Acting in concert, the four troopers handled the crates 
rapidly. Presently the complete supply rose in an orderly 
stack before the forge. The Captain fixed his eyes on the 
hermit. Gallop and Pauline stood in silence throughout the 
entire controversy. Now, they too, riveted their respective 
gazes on the lean face. 

“Well, Buffalo, your favor is granted,” the officer de¬ 
clared. “Now what?” 

“Open ’em,” came the answer, “every dog-gone one!” 

The Captain shrugged his shoulders, and gave the order. 
Presently the blade of an ax split wide the lid of a crate 
marked “Haig and Haig.” And to the amazement of all, 
save the hermit, who swiftly drew his pistol and leveled it at 


The; Forgotte:n City 


303 


Grafter, there was disclosed a score of small Indian pottery 
jars fitted snugly in straw containers that had evidently 
once held quart bottles of valuable Scotch. With a glance 
Gallop recognized them as the initial effort of the Nature’s 
Products Co. They had been filled with fluid and stored in 
the Mayor’s cellar the day previous for a preservative ex¬ 
periment. How they reached the interior of the crate pre¬ 
sented a relieving and quite humorous mystery. 

“Them jars is full of hair tonic, O’Donnel,” advised Buf¬ 
falo. “The real booze is, at this here minute, buried in the 
brush behind Grafter’s Casino. And guardin’ it, with a 
double-barreled shotgun, is Granville Truce, said Mayor of 
this man’s town. I oughta know,” he added, “I damn nigh 
broke my back makin’ the switch last night.” 

“But I don’t understand!” exclaimed the Captain, baffled 
by this new twist. “Are you in on this, too?” 

“I reckon I’m in on this to put Grafter where he belongs, 
O’Donnel. Old man Truce ain’t so crazy as folks think he 
is. He got up for some darn reason late last night an’ 
happened to see Grafter’s thieves hauling the liquor in this 
here blacksmith shop. He woke me, an’ I savvy’d the out¬ 
lay in a second. Knew it was some kind of a frame-up— 
that Grafter wasn’t givin’ anything away for nothing. So 
after his crew had beat it, Granville an’ me hitches up his 
rig an’ makes the change. Hair tonic for booze, and if you 
don’t believe me, open every dog-gone one of them jars and 
see. Such a tough job I never had in my life—worse than 
mining. The whiskey we buried with Granville as the 
guard, which is a sort o’ trick on Grafter. But yet, it’s 
funny as hell when you come to think of it,” added the 
hermit, grinning. “You see, Cap, you ain’t got any evi¬ 
dence on Thompson after all. But you have got two citi¬ 
zens, good and true, who’ll swear and prove the real booze 
came from Grafter’s Casino—an’ also you’ve got the booze 
itself and a darn good convincing yarn to back it up. Now 
arrest this no-good snake, O’Donnel. just as my old dad 
would have done.” 


Chapter XIII 


The fifteenth day of the new year, 1923, found the city 
of Truceville forgotten no longer. An orderly Main Street 
was edged by spotless cement gutters, bordered by broad 
sidewalks, and fronted by parallel rows of freshly painted, 
thriving, and prosperous structures. At precise intervals 
along the curbings, wrought-iron lamp-posts lent a metropoli¬ 
tan atmosphere to the thoroughfare. The numerous stores 
and merchandising shops were crowded by out-of-town 
ranchers, cowboys from the range, and those who had driven 
over from Columbus to do their shopping. 

Thronged by salesmen and employees of the “Company,” 
the Happy Heart Hotel did a constantly profitable business. 
In its luxuriously remodeled lobby, across the street in the 
brass and mahogany recesses of the First National Bank, 
behind the dignified walls of the Court House, and in fact, 
everywhere, an aroma of success permeated the air with 
the refreshing vigorousness of a thriving and contented 
community. 

Greatest of all, in size, construction, and reputation, was 
the mammoth edifice that housed the Internationally ad¬ 
vertised Nature’s Products Company, Inc. Within this 
model factory, dozens of chemists and scientists experi¬ 
mented in a white tile laboratory; hundreds of workmen 
bent over specially designed heckling machines which pul¬ 
verized the tough fibrous center of the yucca log and 
extracted pure creamy lather from its vegetable pulp. By 
a system of glass troughs this extracted juice of the desert 
plant was carried to great steam-jacketed cookers, where by 
an intricate process it was refined to a clear liquid, the color 
of sparkling wine. Then passed this marvelous product 


The: Forgotten City 


305 


to the preserving and perfuming department, where experts 
injected an essential quantity of alcohol to prevent deteriora¬ 
tion, and the finest of French perfumes were introduced to 
multiply its already pleasing fragrance. Then came 
numerous rows of bottling tables where throngs of girls 
filled the quaint Indian pottery containers. 

Upstairs in the luxurious offices, groups of managers, 
department heads, advertising specialists, and salesmen, con¬ 
ferred on new modes of business progress. In the large 
adobe building behind the factory itself, a contingent of 
Indian squaws modeled and baked the unique pottery that 
contained this now world famous juice of the yucca log. 
And out on the broad desert, caterpillar tractors harvested 
this bayonet-leaved plant, while crews of braves loaded it 
aboard specially constructed trucks with transmission and 
gears of a type designed to battle deep sand. 

Throughout the land and in countries afar, drug stores, 
tonsorial shops and beauty parlors displayed and verified 
the merit of the desert’s gift to the hair and scalp. Yucca 
Tonic and Shampoo were household words. Wherever 
there existed dandruff, falling hair, eczema, and diseases 
of the scalp, there was sure to be found one or more of the 
little sand colored pottery containers. 

You read of its proven qualities in newspapers, periodicals, 
magazines and wherever there was print; you witnessed its 
history and primeval origin on the silver screens of cinema 
palaces, the radio lectured you about it; famous celebrities 
were pictured using it; the mails were flooded with com¬ 
munications from satisfied clients; in fact, Yucca Tonic 
and Shampoo was at the zenith of its prosperity. 

And behind this successful commodity, in a magnificent 
office, sat three men: Granville Truce, President; Darcey 
Thompson, Vice-President, and J. “Buffalo” Jones, Treas¬ 
urer—three men who had found, fought and conquered. 


306 


Darryl Francis Zanucic 


The time—late in the afternoon; the scene—the veranda 
of the new Truce residence; the characters—one, a girl, who 
was sad and glad simultaneously; the other a man, who re¬ 
membered and was depressed. 

Charles Christopher Meredyth, Jr., alias Darcey Thomp¬ 
son and among other things, General. Manager of the Na¬ 
ture’s Products Company, Inc., patted a slender, shapely 
hand and continued in a voice that vibrated with emotion: 

“Pauline,” he said, “I’ve been a dirty rotter in keeping 
this from you. Here we are, our engagement announced, 
marriage a week off, and I come to you like a beaten puppy 
frightened into confessing. There have been an hundred 
times, darling, in these last six months, when Fve wanted 
to just blurt it out, even though I knew you might leave me 
forever. But I was a coward, dear, a dyed-in-the-wool 
coward. I loved you, I wanted you for my wife—and— 
and the thought of losing you nearly drove me mad. I 
couldn’t, I couldn’t let you go. But now I must confess. 
There is no other way out. I must tell the truth.” 

“If there’s anything, Tommy,” Pauline declared, “any¬ 
thing you’ve done in the past you’re not proud of, I want 
you to tell me. I know you better than anybody; I love you ; 
know how really wonderful you are, and whatever it is, 
I’m sure you’re not to blame—you couldn’t be. Now,” she 
concluded after a pause, “tell me, Tommy, tell me just what 
it is.” 

“To start at the first," Gallop began, “I’m a liar. A rotten 
liar. Although neither you nor your father have even men¬ 
tioned it, I know you know my name isn’t Darcey Thomp¬ 
son—that I’m strutting in a dead man’s shoes. I’ve used 
the name for two reasons, Pauline. First, because your 
dad called me by it. Second, because my own father won’t 
allow me to use my own. I came to Truceville, dear, bv 
orders—because I had disgraced myself, embarrassed my 


The Forgotten City 


307 


father, made his name the laughing stock of New York. He 
threw me out after standing all he could. God, how I hurt 
him! How I, his only son, dragged him down by a repeti¬ 
tion of vile, scandalous affairs. Darling, I’ve been a drunk¬ 
ard, a spender, a stage-door loafer—everything a fool with 
money can be. But that’s not all, dear. I killed, I murdered 
an innocent man, in, well, in almost cold blood. Manslaugh¬ 
ter, they called it. And money, my father’s money, got me 
off. After that he was through, and I don’t blame him. He’s 
a great man, Pauline, a wonderful father. And now, I can’t 
even say he’s mine. Of course, he told me when I made a 
success to come back and all that. But I never will—that is, 
not as his son. Tomorrow, I leave for New York, Pauline. 
In five days I will be behind bars—charged with manslaugh¬ 
ter. Now that Pve worked and fought and made my mark 
here in an honest way, I’m going back and face the music. 
When I first left the city, darling, I didn’t think seriously of 
my past. But now I realize what Pve been. So tomorrow, 
dear, I’ll be leaving. It’s a low, dirty trick for me to have 
loved you, asked you to marry me, the way I have, and I 
know it. But when our romance first began, I thought I’d 
forget all my repulsive New York life. But now I know 
I can’t, and never can. That is, not until I take my medi¬ 
cine like the man I’m trying to be. Please forgive me, 
Pauline. I know it’s weak of me to ask, but I love you 
more than anything. And now I can’t, I can’t have you.” 

“Tommy,” replied Pauline, biting her red under lip, her 
hands trembling, “nothing you’ve ever done in the 
past will change my opinion of you. To me, you’re the 
most wonderful man in the world. Why, what you’ve done 
for father and me, and Truceville, wipes out everything in 
this past you claim to own. I know you’ve never murdered 
anybody—no matter what you say. You couldn’t—you’re 
far too big for anything like that, Tommy. You’re a man. 


308 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


a real man. And when you return from New York inno¬ 
cent of any crime, you’re going to marry me, Tommy, you’re 
going to be my husband—and that will make me the happiest 
girl in the world. I—” 

‘'Calling Mr. Thompson,” interrupted a voice at the far 
end of the veranda. Gallop answered, and then one of 
the house servants appeared from a clump of ferns. 

“Mr Truce would like you to step in the reception room, 
Mr. Thompson,” said the servant. “Officials representing 
the Santa Fe have arrived in regard to the branch railroad, 
he requested me to inform you.” 

“I’m very busy,” replied Gallop. “Where is Buffalo? 
Perhaps he would do.” 

“Sorry, sir, but he’s trying out the new golf course this 
afternoon. Mr. Truce was quite particular that you come, 
Mr. Thompson, if it was in any way possible.” 

“All right,” Gallop advised, “I’ll be there, shortly.” Then 
he turned to Pauline. “Coming along?” he asked “or will 
you wait here?” 

“I’ll tag along,” came the reply. “I want to see father, 
anyway.” 

When they presently entered the charmingly appointed 
reception chamber, Granville Truce accosted them. 

“Tommy,” he said, “one of the big guns from the Santa 
Fe is in the library. It’s up to you to convince him Truce- 
ville needs and deserves a railroad. Now go to it. Pauline 
and I will wait here.” 

“I’ll do my best,” Gallop declared. Then he crossed the 
large chamber, passed under the dividing arch, and faced 
the individual who sat quite composedly in a deep divan. 
Gallop’s expression suddenly changed to one of sheer aston¬ 
ishment. 

“Welcome, boy, welcome,” said the figure on the divan. 
“Your old dad congratulates you.” 


The Forgotten City 


309 


It was no other than Charles Christopher Meredyth, him¬ 
self. The realization shook Gallop’s mind like a stunning 
blow. He gulped, blinked his bewildered eyes, then man¬ 
aged : “Dad ! Dad ! You’ve come—you’ve really—” 

It was a tender scene that ensued; tender, especially for 
the grim financier. In part, it went something like this: 

“Son,” said the father, tears dimming his intensely blue 
eyes, ‘Tve watched your actions from the very minute my 
secretary left you that last day. I’ve seen your stock soar 
up and up, like every stock I back always soars. You were 
mine, my own investment, and I knew, I knew you wouldn’t 
fail. And you haven’t boy, you haven’t. You’re more than 
I ever hoped for—your old dad is about the proudest man 
alive. And it’s you that’s made me so. You’ve done it, 
son; you’ve licked life and won.” 

“Then you mean I’m a Meredyth again, father?” Gallop’s 
lips quivered as he spoke. “I can have back my name? 
You still want me as your son?” 

“Want you?” repeated Charles Christopher Meredyth, 
“I’ll crack that fighting head if you ever call yourself 
‘Thompson’ again. That’s how much I want you, son.” 

“But dad,” the memory of a sordid incident returned to 
Gallop, “you forget about that charge of manslaughter. I 
can’t allow you to own me until I return and take my medi¬ 
cine. It’s not just, and would only mean a new scandal 
against your name.” 

“Scandal be damned!” exploded the genius of finance. 
“That’s all in the past, son. Forget about it—I fixed that 
fool charge long ago.” 

“Well, I’m not satisfied, father. But now I want you to 
meet the girl who’s going to be my wife, even if they 
give me fifteen years.” Gallop crossed to the archway. 
“Pauline,” he called, “will you and your father step in here a 
moment ?” 


310 


Darryl Francis Zanuck 


As the girl and her father appeared at the threshold of the 
library, a paneled door on the opposite side of the room 
abruptly swung ajar. In upon the thick carpet stepped two 
persons who were never to be forgotten by Gallop. As he 
stared, unable to speak, the realization of their identities 
swamped his mind, rioted his emotions, and shook his 
frame. Here, of all times they had found him—the two de¬ 
tectives of that last scene in his father's office. They had 
tracked him down, trailed him, and now, before the ones he 
loved they would arrest him. Manslaughter! Gallop could 
almost see the charge stamped on the prison register. And 
then, relieving the embarrassing situation, Charles Chris¬ 
topher Meredyth cleared his throat and spoke : 

“Son,” he said, “I want you to meet Messrs. Smith and 
Cox—good cab drivers, good detectives, good attorneys, and 
better actors. And now,” he added, turning to Pauline and 
her father, who looked on bewildered, “introduce me to my 
future daughter-in-law.” 

It was fully a minute before this last occurred,—the most 
delightful minute in Gallop's life. And for Pauline, as she 
thrilled to the ecstasy of his embrace, the happiest by far. 

* * * 

The Elizabeth Ann stage from Deming to Columbus, like 
the Colt forty-five, and Grafter's bandit gang, is a thing of 
the past. Dell MacKenney, the amiable old driver, now 
pilots a coughing and sputtering flivver over the one-time 
trail, but which has now been smoothed and paved to rival 
the finest boulevard in the land. 

As he nears the desert junction of the three roads, he 
bites off a fresh chew and invariably remarks: “Here’s 
where we turn for Truceville. A while back this wus a sand 
trail to a forgotten burg. But no more,” he adds. “Nope, 
no more. She’s now the best little city on the border. 
And say,” this he attempts to represent as an afterthought, 


The Forgotten City 


311 


“I kin remember when us folks about here thought old man 
Truce, who founded the town, wuz crazy. But we've 
changed our idear, now. He's the smartest man in these 
parts—that is, leavin' out a young feller who's a sort 
of manager an’ Sheriff combined. That last critter is sure 
one bright boy, I'll say." 

And then, with a chug, off rambles the flivver toward a 
column of smoke that marks the factory of the Nature's 
Products Company, Inc. 


THE END 



























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